Mewithoutyou

God is love and love is real,
but the dead are dancing with the dead
and though all that's charming disappears
all things lovely only hurt my head
as I gather stones from fields like pearls of water on my fingers' ends
and wrap them up in boxes,
safe from windows, from things that break,
as the night-time shined like day it saw my sorry face,
hair a mess but it liked me best that way
(Besides, how else could I confess?
When I looked down like if to pray,