Touch my face, the nimble fingers fall
To taste the sour grimace blooming thick.
“Deep down” you hear from chasm scraping sick
Those rantings, wild, frenetic gargoyle.
My eyes could not possess your physical,
But bore, pierce, shatter, heedless to inflict
The uttermost upon your heart, indict:
Must I now rip your soul from fleshy thrall?
Typhlotic, feel you sorry for this leash.
Your armor, not enough to stop my eye,
Yet fingers of my own perturbed, denied,
And fail the journey through rib’s plates, steel, each.
Will ever be the day, sun’s soaring tide,
This touch to make you real–with me in reach?