Impregnated By My Dead Poem

There isn't a chance in hell

This poem our lover's

Vows will end furtively

Calypso into red distance

Musketeers without leg or sword

To show the way our breath

Fades too restively

Skips over three snowyears

Alights on cheeks

Our honeymoon daykiss

Still fondles clouds assertively

No chance in ressurection

This poem dances

On it's own grave

Gestates convulsively

Births itself stillborn

Words dropping

Into our pockets

Finds a residency

Embedded in the lining of our souls

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