Morgue-Mistress

To love another, Enable another thrice to kill you, Trusting in non-zero-sum. Bound, to bound, Reach the summit of affections by day, To realize a mountain of 1440 minutes— 1440 feet—lies on the horizon For the next day's feat. To care for another, Hope for a parallel effort In zenith, ascent toward the Everest of Endearment. To know, in purity. In least oxygen, thrives most conviction. Oh, but to be loved, To be loved purely, Unconditionally, We shall conquer mountain tops forever. And the rocks, the landslides, The steep cliffs, Serve to make our journey Worth but a fraction of Midas' hand. With each new mount

Foreword: I do not expect any of you to understand the poem. Just something I wrote around the beginning of January. Maybe you'll like it. Hrm. ----- A Seashell for the shell of a man who has never heard the Ocean. Does not care to hold it to his ear— Much less to his heart. Breathe tainted purity, his essence, nothing more than a hollow soul immersed in an alcohol swamp; Choke in lust, fumes of perfidy. Kill his words with self-destruction, Forgive? Perhaps, but never forget. Perfection in ignorance, most devout in self-effacement. Her broken, shattered shell; without the stability of disregard, without the stability of