Visions Of A Tourniquet

I stand on the diagonal of an absurd pit and an illusionary field.
The dry-grass carpet is still crude, golden humid of the soil,
awaiting me to step its border, either low or in the high.
But diagonal I prefer always to pass, as I'm an indecise creature, with lusts
many lurking at every stone that
fails:
a lust for life, a lust for death of hazard mind, of
ravished flesh by idea and by dream.
You care to join, oh, wonderful breeze, come from salty fars,
sea storms with its approached shore by
the sound, clear,
of forgotten cold guitar;
you care to join, like a tourniquet for a paper scratch,
remained not dry at any whiff - much I wail for naught;
only if you were in here, in now, for my thought alone
for long is gone to a void and isolation, toward
an image
and no else.