Sacred flame

No better term to define my night: A better circumstance,
That in darkness, wanting to hurt, to be felt and heard
I’d curse the light and let flow crimson droplets of the blood spurned
In some avant-garde self-sacrificed matter:

I’m too plain, not a shallow being.
Cover the stitches, I tear at the seams and through these holes, tare covers my breaches and leaves me warm, and this cold weed gathers a home;
Though I can’t bleed, but hope to die, and surrender tears that gather salt in my eyes,
To further dry my violated soul.

If you knew my name: If you felt my words,
Even your misdeed would bear some gay soul recompense...
For words well spoken into these well seeing ears, so to blind eyes words much more stand in favour of dishounorable deeds, and things
And I’d come fly, a ghost of me
I’d go boldly to redeem that happy rest, that sacred flame, and weep a song, eternity.