There is a subtle plague about you,
that makes my gut ill and my eyes pinch.
Is it the undying that so troubles me?
Or is it the precondition of the now fact,
you are my love, and I am but spellbound.
But a rogue for animosity,
a travesty of our intensity, an illusionist am I,
to amuse the lions of the night?
Indeed, indeed.
I do weep, and I do resume.
Beneath the light, of what is- you.
Beneath the stone, of what is- I.
To come forth only by whisper,
and disappear, always, into the lullaby,
which so sweetly draws my sleep,
and so hauntingly keeps,
the only dream I have ever had alive.

 
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