The Sixth Deadly Sin
There you stand, a delicate figurine
misplaced from a porcelain collection,
soul as beautiful as a Sèvres vase.
And all I want is to touch you, capture
forever for myself the wonderment
of life that your heart holds, that mine does not.
And all I want is to feel you, enfold
into my silences your songs, into
my troubled sleep your dreams, where I have none.
And all I want is to spit out death’s bitter
cancer from my mouth, to taste more than blood,
to drink the love you have, that I have not.
I stroke your face, leave on your cheek a trace
of my own pain, my subtle maker’s mark.