The Bell

You shall be it
My serene space
My mental cave

Be the ward my sickness needs
but in which I move freely.
I’ve had a love, a plenty a few loves,
but if our psyches will pay a cost
then you be the beast’s institution.

I choose you, Paris, dove
You, I will love
until the day that I am well
and can return and never tell
that here my soul had rung alarm;
but rather watch with wiser charm
the bell has throttled its walls so to crack.
The beast is gone.
And now, from dust to dust
on softest touch
to snuggle in united embrace
we split, too, to 
become one
silently falling past and down
to graze the ground
of the home we loved.

We groaned and inhaled
to the extent of our minds to rise
too far above our woven brains.

So be it to us to be held down
there on the ground
’til blown apart
as dust we lie
the belle and I.

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