Answer

ANSWER

By Khatchig Mouradian

You talk to me of passion,
Of lines dripping with desire,
Yet nothing is left but ashes...
I've rented to resignation
The vacant apartment of Fire.

With the candlelight of craze
I never found tempests tender,
But still loitered with limping days
In the subway of dusty calendars.

Do not ask me of Lust,
Of ink gushing like semen,
My words are still-born children
Who've had no chance of dreaming.

Look elsewhere for lava,
And papers dipped in craving,
Mine are sketches of withdrawal
On the canvas of lost heaven.