Why did I say that?
Now I can’t take it back.
The delicate pact we outlined
on white sheets in red wine,
I couldn’t keep it straight.
And now it’s too late.
The fire is doused.
There is no doctor in the house
to save this date.
It is dying.
Why did I say that?
Our ancestors collide
after their twisting time ride
on the rails of black and white brides
and candid-shot husbands
numbering in the hundreds.
All this just blood did
behind trembling flesh
and nature at its best.
The fire is doused.
There is no doctor in the house
to save this date.
It is dying.
The beauty parlor we enter deceased
and leave in radiant newborn pieces
and this table is its door
that now opens no more, for
I see the key that turns in your eyes
and the sabers there rattling this imperfect goodbye.
The fire is doused.
There is no doctor in the house
to save this date.
It is dying.
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