Such composure drives them mad
for so complex that sound;
it must get love, itself,
if inciting a returning call
to this respect
is possible.

It takes my love;
and I'm grateful to have found one.

It does not tempt
as she did:
wearing my breath,
and wasting time.

It takes the life from me,
though it was not mine to lose.

Thus, it takes my worries,
ignoring the loose, temporary lives that precede me.


God does not enable,
and so I have been lost.
They the same...
but lashing themselves onward.

So I beg of you,
scrape the skin from off me.
I enjoy it too much.