Oh Thee Poem by Jorge Alexandre

Oh thy beauty hath no
mistake, in this ill, meet
no worser fate. What of
love, beloved. What of
bliss, this love of ours
it is a slow and withering
Mist.

I cannot see, I blindly
love thee as thou says
thou art, and if thou
have lied, then truly
my hour comes too low
and nigh.

The burial rites I myself
have written, in preparation
of my demise, cause even
though thou art nothing but
some blood and imagery,
thou art all to some. and
some are me, who wish
nothing but a kiss from
thee.