Confidant #3
Your hair is red because I weave
a phantom fair that shall not leave
me to a grind and pomp for death
where grain of sand and salted breath
reveals a lair of fallen nod
to beggar what is left of God.
Your eyes are what I wish to see
before that snake envelops me
within a gut of dull surprise
where all is new but all reprise
somehow perhaps molecular
with bits of dust most secular.
Your smile because I will it so
becomes one fuse sparkling low
among those souls who faintly bray
and stand between the night and day
to wither in the cool and dry
awaking neither you nor I.
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