A kind of love which approaches from behind
And smothers into your neck with warm breath,
Is one to be in search of.
A love of the kind found lolling in your chair,
Fresh faced and sucking on a popsicle, as if
The world had just dreamt in bold color.
Noise keeps the deep night away for only a
Time, then the terrored whispers rise,
Cauterizing love’s fresh wounds.
Their burnt edges smell like despair,
As tears of sorrow rush to rise and fall,
Washing the bleary eyes of their blood.
Now a love so cleverly hidden is looked
For and longed for and hoped for in
This dying moment before you.
Won’t you come and help me search,
Won’t you come and help,
Won’t you come?