What's that called I don't remember?
The darkness that creeps up
At night,
In slumber.
In the sudden loss of light.
Even though it's dark here,
I still close my lids to sleep
To grant a wish,
To dive in deep.
Where some cry, most weep.
What's that called when
We tuck ourselves in the bed?
Sing to our ears,
Mourn for what's dead.
In the deep corners of our blanket.
What's the broken thing laying with me?
Oh I remember!
It's the wry thing called a dream.

If Sylvia Plath
Had come to me
For a ****** reprieve
Or a living loving embrace
I would have raced
To face that lovely face
I would have chased those
Dark and tempestuous eyes
To find passion release
To share one moment of peace
To hear her heart speak
With beat after beat
Even if she broke mine
If she attacked my limbs
Assailed my spirit with her fury
Even if we had to make love in a hurry
None to ever be the wiser
And maybe in the morning spend
Words and verses
Like counterfeit forms of affection
Well, that would be better
Then the release of any *******