strange sacred longings 

far-wandered thoughts

these withered words

all whispered for nought

cinched desires abound

though you took it for granted

heed this wary prose

of perspectives slanted

mustard and gold

boy these talks they get old

sickly complexions

yellowed and old

oh my sweetheart, the tortured

the free, the divine

my prince, my king, 

I hail unto thee

upon this throne 

is the fate of decline

I wish it weren’t so,

sand castles kicked asunder

wrought-iron gates groan

and the ‘ship sinks under

bright-eyed, I swallowed

bushy-tailed, drowned in a dream

I keep going and going 

this light belongs to me