You are not a peace coming midst chaos and despair,
You are rare, and if there quickly disappear.
You are the fear of the fear, immemorial and earthreal
impossible to feel between the tides of insecurity
the shipwrecked nativity turned to the ashes of cynicism
And yet I lust for the echoes of those ashes,
But you are not in crashes of lips or slips of Aphrodite tongue,
You are an aria not to be sung, poem not crafted to write,
You shed no light on what I ache to know
Yet, I think, I would die if you should go.