Here, where all flowers <br />shrivel and wilt, <br />where all saints become <br />beggars and thieves, <br />I sleep with the ghost <br />of St. Cecelia. <br /> <br /> <br />Our eyes engaged, our neuroses <br />entwined, we cling to each other <br />with a desperation bloodles <br />and dull: like husband and wife.<br /><br />David Kowalczyk<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/heart-distant-as-stone/
