With you I'm begun,
no more a phantom,
the real one,
not a disguise,
a ruddy bloom under redden sun,
I am always me
not an appellation to recognize,
so, I sell my heart to you
because there is a true customer
in your eyes.
In this bruised ambiance of exile,
in this shopping isle,
-that there are no more stockpiles
of pristine smiles,
for laughter is feigned, vile,
for sweetness is out of style, -
I look at you
and my heartbeats brim over
like gushing gullets of sparrows
like fermenting wine waltzing with spile.
I give my heart to you
this beehive
suckling your iris to survive
bursting beauty in your taste buds
rather than in your eyes,
turning thirst to floods,
turning blooms to honey
in lieu of butterflies.
