Hymns For the Dead Dancer

Please me for once. Give me deluging discussions About the wonderful, ponderous pits Of worry I have for our world. Or about deprived poor people who Dance whenever it rains. Then die Laughing at anyone Who falls for feelings. I believed I would find pulses Jump fearlessly through Your dying body. Excitement would paint Your skin. With the strength of dinner-time grace, And the divine touch from your god, You could possibly enjoy A smile from childish folly. I wanted a blooming expression. You would float, failli across a marley floor. Your body was a hurricane Dancing through a small-town, Destroying every parish it pleases. I begged for blushes that day We ran rebellious Down a basement bathroom, And touched for fun. Tempered every piece of anatomy We had. Lost In the slowest six minutes of my life, Creating sin out of ourselves, I thought I heard air. A breath of contempt. A sigh for peace. A prayer for hope. A white flag of submission. I thought I heard A Human. I am Looking at your grave. Your lavish grave. Between us is the saddest six feet Of dirt, of distance. I am Belting hymns above Your dead body, The rhythms of redemption, The arias of the unrequited. You need to know The feeling of losing All the sounds In your resurrected throat. I am nothing But blasphemy When I breathe Through a dry, holy note.