Mymet

Away… away from the markings and measurements,
from the torn curtains of fire whose names
become the duties of the traveler. Away from
such perfect night as gives stars from empty time,
and back, once more, to her exquisitive wings, which,
in this strange world, they call thus: lips. Toward
a better perfection still; the silence of such eyes
as would unbuild my heart for statues and thrones,
and thus our gazes never meet. Alas. Alas. Away.