I look at you and know that poetry
will not avail; the art is nothing more
than vulgar words in weathered verse, unfit
to replicate your sacred energy.

What tongue could hold the fundamental truth
of my desire: the soundless, shapeless ache
of yearning to exhale my meagre soul,
and permeate the Eden of your flesh.

And is there yet, in all the countless songs
of sorrow, lamentation apt to bear
the quiet dignity and slow decay
of unrepenting, unrequited love.

My words are blood upon your altar, each
A shadow of the inexpressible.