'Twas a sight today. Did me feet trample the same stone, the ceiling hath I known for too long a time, if art two decades too long for one to say. 'Twas a sight today.
Was it not on Dickinson's epistle, nor Plath's Lazarus, nor Keats' green grass;
Oh! 'Twas not on Gibran's intensity of words, and painful was it for me to nod when asked me Wordsworth if it was him that I had my body shivering for today. Alas!
Was there something wrong? What? What? What I queried again and again.
Oh Holy Grace did let slip a drop of elixir on my copy of Dickinson's poetry where was there a plucked lash of my eyes for my eyes to behold.
Was it the indication. 'Twas the urge for me to heed. And hear. And sing.
So shivered my lips in cold, and harked my ears a tune familiar in their cold-cold quiver.
My lips were dry. My lips art dry. Brown and black and soupcon of skin wearing out of the flesh is that red.
Underneath where my fingertips can touch, and right where none else's ever can, it that bloody red - gory crystals of Ruby for me to kiss incessantly.
Oh my God and Oh my Goddesses! Oh Holy Trinity watching me from the crevices that heaven also bears! Yes, is heaven also scarred for me in this eventide. Should I be punished for I might have sinned? Will I carry out my ablutions in pursuit of absolute purity with freezing water from the sky.
How can I deny that hurts me deep the thought of looking up in the firmament and not finding you staring at me?
How can I spurn my cognizance of thy watchful appraisal of every step I...