Under frigid tides,
love’s last joyous lungful escapes,
so finally, passion’s carcass may sink.
Bound to a heartstrung anchor, we drift,
through growingly gelid planes,
bathyal and numb,
before we reach the seabed,
the abyss uncharted beneath
A palace forged of our fondness,
in a scavengers’ realm.
Keen claws nip and vile mouths bite;
but their fair-weather boon soon
fades; and only bone cairns of
love lost remain.
Far from the warm, soft, shallows
of lust we have waded,
if only to sink so far,
at least we know we have
swum in waters
that run so deep, so cold.