All we want to hear about is love and
Madness, wounds left in the mind
Where what's taken for granted
Was ripped out and scattered, just ash.
Maybe just madness, then. Addicts
Left shaking their cupped hands
Trembling out aching, quaking desire
Where stillness arrives with a kiss,
Where confession pours crimson,
A ****** of claret. Spilled into a glass,
Sloshed across a tongue, breathing
Bitter, barren, dry - washed down
With another glass, until the flavor stains
Teeth and tongue and lips. We are
What we drink: water and blood.
We are what we love: madness, confession.
Does a ****** see in their subjects
The viscid revel of their own scars?
