when i did something i don't regret and fell asleep writing a poem

(and posted two blogs in one day)

in blood, is it
so vain to say
through holy roses
the vile temptress
thy name is
things past.

that to which
wherewithall,
i do so entreat your
springly beauty
to pardon me-

for while I know just
well
like aristotle school children
the everything of nothing,
i reside in the middle,
lustfully composing
intermingled chaotic
silence.

-and adamesque, i take
the second bite
of bittersweet memories
and symphonize life and death's
eternal romanticism
in my head.