for armoured linoleum

[This time I couldn't stand to wait.

I actually got up at 2 a.m. last night to write this.]

"having broken art most fragile"

by antoine.

there she sits upon a bed of marble

with an alabaster pillow.

there she sleeps in silence,

motionless, her beauty

emanating from her residual pulse

and leaking through the air.

from her ruby orifices

trickles out the darkest remnants

of her strength and her spirit.

the crimson liquid manifests

most passionate desires.

now i turn mine eyes

away from this still-beating

heart upon the tile

and fix them upon her source:

my dream-plagued lover,

lying still, a perfect mirror

image of her vital organ.

now, in my blackest craze,

i see the gaping chest

from whence i have most blindly

wrenched her most prized possession

heaving its last

and seeping black-red corruption

to sully the white of the ground.

i contemplate what i have done,

am overwhelmed and, weeping,

i join them both.

i gasp for breath and love too soon lost,

an unworthy and easily forgotten sacrifice.