Elevated, you are a spire
in the rain uneven
in an uneven world. You
are the deluge slicing through the air
horse-like. You are the acid
inside. You are the way life lives
on in looks over the fire.
You are the dream like always.
You are the sky’s falling
timpani. You are the notes I took,
added together, and you
are the torn paper pieces I ate.
You are the future tense, pickaxe,
heart split up into quarters.
after J.M.W. Turner