Rue the enchantments
self-whipped into the skin of copper.
Feel contrite at the sight of the blindness of the light.
Melodist whose path engenders cockroaches
far from grate, stroke, and grace,
let me not see the astray longing in the gemstones of your eyes.
Creator who denies the sovereignty of his might,
compelled be to crawl through the apertures of my delight.
Sing, child of moss and raindrop!
Take my hand, being of rust and summer glow!
I’ll take you to the kingdom of the lost,
and rob you of your life with a single touch.
Incarnate the tunnels of pandimensional growth and spiraling sorrows,
so that you experience joy nonjudgemental in the morrow.