Jun 172010
My passion has no voice
But every night she cries
She weeps beneath her idols
Then turns her back and dies.
My dreaming has no fountain
And yet it fills the day
Drowning all my scruples
And cleansing my decay
My music has no marrow
It wears a phantom’s clothes
And everyone that’s touched it
Tells legends of its ghost
My anguish has no lesion
No bruise on which to blame
This constant and irrational
Subscription to the pain
My art has no intention
It is an antique horse
That binds me to its beauty
And drags me to discourse
And all that which designs me
Inside your pious gaze
Is but a fleck of sunlight
Seeping through my endless maze.
