From 'Your' Despair I Grew Worried Poem by James McLain

Murder me love is deeply and your quilted, made bed
from thy many questions, I ask, you grew it annoyed.
You would not ask rolling hills of presumption.
What turned you back down upon from which the icy
cold steps leading up from the cobwebs and weave
left frozen in time unthinking, made wet the center.
Like the clock you last saw it's face made of glass
remade from the heat of your sand, when shattered
my fate thinking it loved yours, that you last when saw,
O' my love, is bovine,
simply being simple full of milk, flowing words run off both ways.

Deep in the night dead people still come.
The old city district.
Historic in worth now known for it's value.
Though those old red bricks keep being
carried away
From the heart of old Tampa and hidden
in graves.
Red tears from the ground of, 'Valdemar.

You carried my body off very far away.
Many so many times I had to leave what was
left of my mind
behind alone in each chamber of your hands
and I Redeemer each and every chief a Judge
who saw me of no worth
but your worth from the last one that gave me up
to the next forever they come and I wait.

My virtue as thick as the air that surrounds you.
My heart is now only as strong as you allow it, 'you/are.
My Morales are as unapproachable as you.
My values I owe to you and in my debt from whom I am, 'you/are.
My sight is as short as yours was long to the sea.
What did I have need of sight shut away from
the light in the darkest of pits, where it was that you loved me.
And crystal, from which my head is now hung,
and Grey marble hard colloquiums of thought, your clay,
from all of those books you in deep courage,
foregrounded by those from whom sight you knew to give me.