The crows are singing
Nails on a chalkboard,
The frostbitten fusion
Of our matter:
Quarks of quirks
The snark of smirks,
It’s naked virginity.
The dirge of desire
Of our pupils intersection.
That detached shackling,
Fear bloomed bliss,
The faint trace of a kiss.
The numbing ahh,
Of your awe.
The shells of beetles.
Yields harmonious gasps
For diatomic oxygen;
Enchanting nerve gas.
The air of anarchy,
Full with our confetti ashes,
Dusting frontal lobes,
The sensation of motion,
The coincident mannequin stillness,
Snowflake echoes of massacre,
Their sine curve undulation.
Our souls interjected
In this pool
Lips dripping cyanide.
Their tormenting absence.
Loops of amnesia impenetrable:
Our internal laughters;
Then pain stained reality.
Our dueling hurricanes,
Then the reaper’s touch,
This is our love.
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Comments about this poem (Love's Ashes by Cristina Ventura )
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
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William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
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