Musings on a lover

He who paints the upper echelons of the stars

with his feminine lips and begs me to suffer

for a simple glance, a touch, a sliver of gold

He who carries Michaelangelo under

furrowed underarms

and charms sorrowful magicians out of terrible

secrets

My love is the ghost of renaissance oils loosed upon

Ottoman carpets

grinding themselves into the backs of their

lover occupants

My love is the corpse upon which dark irises make their

beds, where grasses keep their basements,

and where time ceases it's dreadful

song

My love wears a crown of thorns caught in his wild hair. They cut deep and burrow themselves past thought

**Disclaimer: I've been reading A LOT Keats and Thomas.