Ai

My love, my dear,
listen to these words
you cannot hear.
Like the song of birds,
your voice is beauty
condensed infinitely.
Screaming mutely
I confess unguiltily,
what tears’d make beautiful,
so forgive me for being
less than bravely dutiful
and let heart continue bleeding.
Your tears’d be diamond
where your voice is golden
and eyes amber almond
of which I live beholden
drowning in bitter happiness
smiling through salt.
Gazing at beauty hopeless
as a mortal by fault
of angels enchanted.