Absent from the Art

... on shores of passion - the shores of deserts -
in woe,
I am skeletons
of many years ago,
drowning absently,
in the oceans of short-term memory.

At ocean floors
I am misery,
and taint the golden flowers
that bloom upon my tongue;
dead birds and bees
kissing sores I bruise upon my lips.

A whirlpool of wine
bitter
and delusive
like fresh fruit in winter,
so my equilibrium fades ...
... within sunken ships of romance,
a pathological dance
with cupids and mermaids.

This is love, of metaphor and cliche;
a drag museum of delicate art,
in which there is no display,
for my hapless heart.