You seem to be setting off some smoke alarms in me.
Every time that I am required to concentrate
On something that is larger than me
(Larger than life)
I hear this perpetual beeping and thick vibrations, so muscular
Come from the tower
And it blinds me.

I’m learning every antithesis of what you are teaching me:
Every syllable that I try to annunciate is an exclusive paradox.
I’ve never been able to put liquid gold on to cold paper before now.
You are the hand of Midas.

And here I am: tearing flesh is a thing of the past,
My ancient history textbook is worn
And worthless and I cannot sell it to replace
What you have lost and for that
I am sorry.

I only want you to **** the marrow out of my dreams
For as long as it takes you to.

Voices from the tower echo throughout my body
And I start to feel sick.
Violently sick, almost.
A war rages.

And the walls become tepid and
I can ******* sweat from the night
Before on the back of my tongue
And you are there too; not consciously,
but your pressure is there.

And something begins squeezing my skull
And I can hear swords clashing.

Oh heavy, precious metal.

I do not want to be frightened by this.
In fact, I want it to last forever.
Well past its expiry date until the nausea fades out.

And we will not be strangers then but
My eyes will be blackened and maybe
You will not remember the waxes we shared.

But I will.