07-30-2013, 01:07 PM
This mind that grinds & twists beneath the skin,
Like flaxen rope that tightens 'round the doomed:
It mortifies for what it knows as sin.
The hangman's wife, she smiles over the loom
And weaves a dress that binds around the chest
His breath to make confined and stutter short,
Though freer than the suffocated breast
On which he softly treads and pulls athwart.
At dawn he dons his hood and hands me mine.
Like guilty lovers thrust into the light,
Though impotent from cowardice and wine,
We consummate the wedding of delight
And that which will destroy us all in time,
As Thanatos and Eros realign.
I know myself that this is might be a bit unclear or abstract, but I don't really know.
Like flaxen rope that tightens 'round the doomed:
It mortifies for what it knows as sin.
The hangman's wife, she smiles over the loom
And weaves a dress that binds around the chest
His breath to make confined and stutter short,
Though freer than the suffocated breast
On which he softly treads and pulls athwart.
At dawn he dons his hood and hands me mine.
Like guilty lovers thrust into the light,
Though impotent from cowardice and wine,
We consummate the wedding of delight
And that which will destroy us all in time,
As Thanatos and Eros realign.
I know myself that this is might be a bit unclear or abstract, but I don't really know.