salted to disappear, not to taste, aged love poems writ before my eyes drip drop from bed to floor, lightly screaming no mรกs no more
there is a raging quietude in bed, in head, without you to write for, without you, write no more
for without my audience before my Queen, I am uncommissioned, dispurposed, words not just blurred, perishing, lightly melting,
the colors of our conversation, were the stuff of me, magnetos of pinks purple hues, magenta grooves from which spilled, flowed, torrents des cris du cลur, not color-blinded, blindsided, words black on white, even worse white on black look at this writ miserable and all stand
pronouncing
this is a lost man who has lost his salt of the earth