the silence of giving in
is greater
than the work itself.

dieties blame the tides of rain, the schism;
satan bares disease, the sable mess
of bile. nests of harm, a means of stress
the same as sears established mannerisms.
she builds hate, a bliss of ash and shame
to house the taste of bare and darted flesh
that rests on detested land. she rends the mesh
that ties back bullets, takes minimal aim.
heaven and hell in earnest idyll take sides
and eat the woman bare; her limbs are able
to sate the team, her heart a lantern for rest,
a beam to follow in search of fear. she dies,
is maimed for lack of love; is a seminal handle
on the earth, and she bleeds to die so blessed.

because if i wasn't so strong-willed,
i'd need someone a little more spineless.
and if the beginning is this rough,
i anticipate a peaceful middle age--
an understanding of what it means
for water and oil to coexist.
we are not floating on the surface of the sea,
you and i, we are not superficial,
and the further we dig, the closer we get
to some soft flow of maturity.