The Form of Life Alone

His shoulder against my breast

My head falls on his sweaty shirt

I dance as if there is no end

To this saga of beer frolicking in my hand,

I see the neighbors come and dance,

I see the birthday man drunk and gone to bed,

I am alive, I am toxic, with the waste,

Which I wish to be so many days,

Today my feet are red and hurt,

 But I can’t waste away the night,

For it turns up and down,

And side and up,

And I can’t waste away the night,

For it comes far and in between,

And whirls to the sight,

Of poems great as these,

Which cannot lend to rest in bed,

But instead stumble to their wake,

In words stolen from sleepen slumber,

In letters that still do not exist,

I’ve foretold it many times,

I am she who tells the truth,

I am she who forgets about the great Alexander,

And makes her own forbidden wake,

Do not see me when I’m dead,

For that is no longer who I am,

Burn me, sing to me, but do not look upon my face,

For he who’s dead is no longer in the sinner’s body,

But rises to the heavens and meets God’s delight,

I’ve forgotten that which crept into my flesh,

And ate away at my heart’s most stupid aches,

I’ve lived on and on and learned to love him to leave behind,

And let him live the life of his, and let me live the life of mine,

Which blessed it is with man so solemn,

Yet so soft and gentle, and consoling,

With a biased approach to interests of thy self,

And a heart as grand as countries rich and strong,

We will not reform, yet life is what is born,

From the earth alone,

And no one none truly knows,

The form of life alone.