Here upon St. Lucy’s day you live in a
Thimble; surviving with alchemy. The

Elixir of death, the quintessence we
Fail to recognise—how often have

You wept to water the dust, how often?
I, a beast and an epitaph, a preference,

An antithesis; the mistress knows—and
So does her pillow. Some erotic rapture…

Where I stand outside myself.

Our hands are cemented together; our
Skeletons harmonised—funerals are


Do omit to come to mine;

Our bodies
Aren’t ours:

A message mistress conveys, I follow
Unequivocally on St. Lucy’s day, as

You knit spirits.

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a poem is an extension of this temporary self; when leaves fall a gentle breeze is felt...