Ochre

Ochre
is how I feel about you.
It is the bridled passion
that fuses my mindless senses together.
It is my deepest regret
only aleviated by your celestial gold.

Ochre
is the worms' furious work,
devouring the dead and dying;
giving birth to silver chance.
Perhaps we, too, feed on that which is dead,
ready to conceive again.

Ochre
is what I see in you:
your might and your can.
You are the salt of the earth's decaying bones
and that which embalms them
in that moist heat of fecundity.

Ochre
is that which fringes your seemlessness
and blood-dusts your melting morals;
your effervescent ethics
and your fickle failures,
each one of them brilliance-induced to fall.

Ohre
is what I ask of you
in the heat of ethereal expectations;
when the shadowed memory
conjures surrogate words
for my every foreign need.

Ochre
is what we are;
what I wish to be
in my unrestrained consciousness.
Ochre
is the water-colour of our lives.