With the pale cracked mouth of a saint you spoke
In patterns; like all my favorite prayers,
Ave Maria, Our Father, so on.
Pray, pray, the old forbidden question.

Au revoir! Scene!

A half burnt cigarette lands at my feet.
Oh what’s it all mean? What is it to me?
The old Manhattan Opera is all filled
Up with those glowing pretty faces I love

Perfume and cologne, fur coats and bow ties.
The cool night rain douses the red embers,
I look up from it before i miss them;
The apparitions could disappear soon.

Any second! At a moments notice!
I could lose every single one of them,
And their glory, and their beauty, all gone.
Oh, but I pray, what would it be to me?

In the blink of an eye they could be light
Years away, and what would that be to me?

They are marching in Warsaw,
Through their wind and their snow,
With their banners and their anthems,
And their God and their crucifixes.

They are marching in Warsaw,
Scared and proud,
Strong and powerless,
Loving and enraged.

They are marching in Warsaw,
With thundering footsteps,
That’s clapping fades into the sad,
Sad hums of something destined to be lost.

They are marching in Warsaw.
In vain. In vain.

You are where you’ll always be
Laying silent in the crawl spaces of my mind
With hands filled with dirt and crushed pebbles
Eyes closed and that ****** bleeding smile
Basking in the glory of your own destruction

You bared your bleeding heart,
I couldn’t stop from falling hard;
Falling away... and I wish I could forget
All these visions that still fill up my head.
 
You look like my favorite sin.
Headlights on you, they never dim
Shining bright, waiting on a curtain call;
Walk away, maybe I won’t overthink this all.
 
I owe you so many thoughts I keep all to myself.
Can’t believe this is too good for my health;
You didn’t see how I died at the foot of your grace;
Call me a martyr with a cause gone to waste.
 
If I could relent to my old stubborn ways,
I’d again love to die by your grace.

With arms around you I make love to myself.
Outside the leaves are changing with the ode of Autumn,
And the rain sings my favorite grey old song,
But I don’t think it sings for me.
You look up at me as if this all means anything,
While I hate everything i do to you,
And I will not tell you my name,
But I don’t think you’d care to know it.
You’ll be done with whatever this is soon enough.
Our ****** vignette of nothingness.
You put your nails in my back like you’re supposed to,
I kiss your neck as I imagine I probably should.
We act out love like the marionettes we are,
But we will garner no applause.

You walk in the room and I lose my head,
Walk in the room and you run through my mind.
Some spoken words, a smile, my face turns red,
My courage, my voice, I never find.

What beauty with which you are inflicted,
Such that, by you, my dreams may be wrecked,
Their enduring secrecy, insisted,
My thoughts and feelings, you’ll never suspect.

All this to you, my beloved’s beloved;
My own Maud Gonne’s John Macbride, to I, Yeats,
What contrary roles are we behooved,
I, the ground she walks, you, her heavens’ gates.

Such looks, such passion, more than I could be.
I hold no ill-will, no scorn, just envy.

My dream: A juniper tree.
Giving shade, to you and me.
Where sin feels ever so sweet,
And our heart and thoughts roam free.

My dream: old cobblestone streets.
Where we feel no chill nor heat,
And you, my heart forever keeps
The old Parisian feat.

My dream: A chapel steep.
Ran down to Destiny’s deep
Grey eyes, that I see and weep.
For this dream, I stay asleep.