as I lay me simply to rest my head

Her face is the picturesque eternity in which I bleed
Her eyes I see
Are that which burn my throat with thoughts unspeakable,
splitting my lips as I curse the night
in a masquerade of frustration uncontained by my unforgivable soul.
her beauty of which I speak is the sunset on the autumn's eve.
This monologue is the product of enfatuation, lust, and greed.
Once I have explained. . .
I always fall.
Too damn sad.
She is the world tonight in the iris of summer's eyes.
None can fathom.
None shall comprehend what I desire;
for that is death,
and tonight the world shall weep over another lamb lead to the slaughter
on the chopping block of content.
She is the world tonight in the Iris of summer's eyes.
Tonight the world shall cry
as I take one last look in her venemous eyes,
hold my breath,
lay down and die.