A Shor Trip to Nowhere

Where am I at now

in love with you--

whose eyes enchanted me

now your face haunts me

in the hidden cave of

quelled sentiments

wishing to be dulled

by the angelic god of sobriety

the sentient sword of lust

crushing my dispensable (oh, reprehensible? dispensa, pues)

remorse--

Where am I now

that's what he should have

asked as he climbed

further down into hell, no?

Where are they now,

after they fake poisoned themselves

and for reals, reals poisoned themselves?

Is that the way all stories of love end?

Is that it for us,

or do we grow

like caressing summer plants on

the snowy mountains of the North?