Those precious bones of yours
Are ever-melting in a makeshift graveyard
That I've constructed for you,
In a plane of spiritual-coordination:
The centre of my mind.
Rose campions bend their way
Through the rusty arches of this cemetery's gate,
I roll below all of it,
This place is my only halo.
I remember the terrible beauty,
Synonymous to love:
If it were a colour,
Turkish delight sky,
It'd be the backdrop that coated out those days.
Stupid webs of tragic romance
My memory often mythologising
And utilising Monet's lens,
Yet in reality there I was
Raging out of imaginary bird cages,
Sickly oblivious to your purple poison,
And like always so childish in my thirst for curiosities and mysteries,
Just begging for a broken heart.