#wordsofarthur

"There is a kind of guilt upon my hands / One that sleeps and feasts ‘pon one’s sanity / For I love a man who is more than man / And hold beauty that is more than skin deep."

Dust of lechery rest upon thy spine. Aye, one could compare thee to a goddess: Thy frame—baptized in the sweetest of wines, Thick with milk were the apples on her chest. Lay nude before my hungry eyes, I pray: God has gifted thee with divine beauty! The god of love shall stroke thy hair when gray, Thy lusty youth shall e’er remain with me, In these words, in these lines, in this poem, Thy name—thy life—shall remain wet with love; Gents within a dream shall be woke again, A name—a life—that the dumb shall speak of. And e’en when thy silence becomes prolong, In death, to thee, world beauty shall belong.

My dearest, dearest heart, art thou alive? In thee, I have planted my beating seed, And there, I nurtured my fleeting life, By which is ever thine to have and keep. Is my name not carved into thy own tongue, And thine into my meek and open throat? Does not the sun shine gayly, pure and young? Our existence, together, we wrote. Bid me! My world has stolen my air! How do I breathe if I thou do not free? Was not thy first thought when thou skimmed my corse, Art! Thou did kiss sweet life upon my lips! Ergo, I ask with a soul strong and live, My dearest, dearest heart, art thou alive?