this (or any other thing of love or equal matter)

this (or any other thing of love or equal matter)
is not something pure - instead it drips with murky waters
under the night sky traversing the inhalations
of mourning over our dead loving bodies

sometimes our love is not a wonderful splendorous thing:
instead it seems to brood under the clouds crashing
like waves upon rocky shores, tidal waves that burst
through the sea to bury all those sailing

still this rough thing is our love and still it is reaping
of our mouths, of our notions of those things that
keep our fingers shaking like winter's boughs
about to shatter in the frigid moaning of our love

now we rest and reflect upon that darkness
that somehow molds and forms into our love