I expected to be spoken of fluently
but now they will hammer archetypes and burn them.
They call it holy.
They call me deficient.

On your extensive shoulders they force the burden.
They do not like the well-defined shape of your cheeks.
But how can they not see?
Once upon a time did an unknown renaissance artist
place every stroke he had on you.

Complete, absolute.
In the wrinkle between your brows
life itself is shown.
I want to smooth it out and leave something behind.

I want to stroke your hair
challenge order.
I stretch to reach.
Find support when I lose balance.
The cotton wool slides across your back.
Get a grip!
– But I am love
to the marrow!

Tarnished be the porcelain vision
but unbreakable is the fair gloom.
Frail is your posture.
The body bows like a flower to the sun.
Why do you not break free?
I would like to see your solar plexus boast
towards the greater.
I want to feel the stream beneath.
Perhaps have you been waiting just for me?

Carefully I support you behind the back.
Skip the title page.
Dive into the first act.
I want to read your every urge
but
I lack the vocabulary
I cannot comprehend the grammar.

I cannot learn
since the pogrom
in which they burned the books.
But my mutiny is ahead
and hence my fall.

I sever through the golden ratio.
It seeps.
Our love is their venom
and as we fall
they corrode.

No palace can be built on elusive soil
and of empty epitomes.