Loves lethal holiday begins as a warp in the sun
and cavitates into an awkward bloom
of shameful spikes and encrusted heirlooms.
it bores into the center of not being a man
and sings the abattoir
of such cattle
as a loving
one.

II

forgive me if I cannot hate myself today.
been too long entrenched in the marvel
of loving too much
the very thing
to ****
me.

III

it goes without saying
and is thusly said.

we have our hour to be Beautiful
and our Eternity
to dread*.