Subscribe to Blog via Email
Loveless Morning - Song of Spring
Bring your blood bags to the table of black china
xprivate anal plug viewings availablex free trial xxxx
In the thick morning air that hangs like smoke over the river, just before the day begins to unfurl its golden arms of endless ribbon, there are seconds of stifling grace. We knew the way to every house, you and I – we walked like skeleton-lovers from the docks across the dampened fields and strode our mercy into every gravel road, kissing beneath the dark blue sheets of pure sky.
The waking birds sing sadly at dawn’s first touch. Down the sloping hills, from the township to the dipping stream, the light of glorious birth brings sorrow with its glow. Nowhere is there sorrow so abundant as heard in morning bird-song – the lark laments the chill; the sparrow mourns the summer.
And on every southward window gleams the fury of our tired spring – we were young there among the reeds, the lilting wounds of youth so marked across our skin. We gave words like trustworthy enemies; we gave smoke to smokeless eye. Yes, the terror of the widowed soul – it gives until it withers thin and old, then travels home to starve and beg.
Love is such a dreary thing as this – a starving dog that longs to eat its master and be done. Be done with love! We craved for sorrows end but never ventured from her claws. We suffered every touch and wept beneath her callous and unblinking hole.
As spring dims cool among the weeping trees, we were ghosts upon the paths of summer. Always silent in our trouble – we would shed no sooner grave nor hasten life for loveless living. And yet those houses that we knew, they knew us too. They eyed us through the evil shrubs as every morning came to flower. From under shelter, drowning in our brutal love, our faces dark and drawn, soulless and unreadable.
Those golden mornings, when you and I would sleep – we found each other quiet, no heart beating in our restless slumber.