A raptor’s broken wing rests upon
the breast of Love’s fiery blaze,
raw and organic, just like any
love I have seen. With the fusion
of swords, I rest for you, the
only love I have ever ceased
to feel; and fighting for life,
I perish in darkness, for the
refusal of your spirit brings
anguish to my being.

I would die for you. I would do
anything to claim you as my own.
My secret lover, though universal,
for I want the love we share to
grow and inspire into hundreds of
millions of other compassionate
novels, each their own.

Your heart rests in mine until they
beat as one, convulsing with the
strength of two, yet though stitched
together with the most delicate
fabric, it lives on beyond its
most wildest years.

And as the raptors takes its plight,
I can remember your face so tender
and fragile, twisting into obscurity
as I fall to my demise from the late
cascades of torture. Pain is poetic
only when the poem is fit to seem
like her life’s destiny is to crumble
into the fire.