I would brush you in opiate chords of dawn's early light; and harmonize hymns on a holy harpsichord, if it would make even a fraction of an iota of a shift in your tectonic plates.
You are steadfast, a mourning morning without traces of gold ink in the rising sun. You are the clouds of fog rolling over no-man's-land, illuminating the barbed wire and forgotten soldiers of your consciousness, raising banners of snowy patriotic obliteration over your crevasses. Have you so quickly forgotten the warmth of tangled feet and twisted bedsheets; or do you seek to replace it with the iron heat of a breathing machine gun?
--x*x--
I shine for you, a broken Polaris running out of heat; as the hot gas in my lungs has been exhausted, massaging broken eardrums that beat for Old Glory, but no longer for me.
I will always be here, but I feel my bonds splitting. You said I was a supernova; soon I will be a black hole.
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