This is an ode to love,
But there is no subject to this love,
This is an empty ode,
A coffin with the corpse long-decayed,
A debt that was never owed,
A terror unafraid.
This is to Donnie, the Whiz-Kid.
I have so much love to give.
This is to my muse,
But not about anyone in particular.
It's only Audrey I amuse
When dancing with vernacular.
She's what gives me motivation,
But is not the subject of my affection.
My subject is desire itself -
An emptiness which must be filled,
A yearning for a book upon my shelf,
Happiness that simply can't be willed.
This is an ode to love,
But you should know right now
That I cannot love human beings,
I can only love ideas,
And they both fall through my fingers to the tune
Of coarse sand on a lazy afternoon.
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 1:24 PM UTC
This is an ode to love,
But there is no subject to this love,
This is an empty ode,
A coffin with the corpse long-decayed,
A debt that was never owed,
A terror unafraid.
This is to Donnie, the Whiz-Kid.
I have so much love to give.
This is to my muse,
But not about anyone in particular.
It's only Audrey I amuse
When dancing with vernacular.
She's what gives me motivation,
But is not the subject of my affection.
My subject is desire itself -
An emptiness which must be filled,
A yearning for a book upon my shelf,
Happiness that simply can't be willed.
This is an ode to love,
But you should know right now
That I cannot love human beings,
I can only love ideas,
And they both fall through my fingers to the tune
Of coarse sand on a lazy afternoon.
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