Your Head is the House of Your Tongue

The darkest part of the sea, that’s where I’ll be
The parts of oceans only drowning men see
I’ll strike a match for all sea-eaten souls
And pitch my lungs against the inquisitive deep
But I am dumb to tell the enquiring tide
My impatient praise of your imperfect face
Where once longing on your lips did dwell
Now only scorn for my too eager embrace
Your head is the house of your treacherous tongue
Though we’ve kissed many moons down over Linlithgow.
The ocean spoke;
‘How endless my chest and my rhyming stride!
That cultures cascade over wind-aided waves
And motionless boats with heraldic masts reside!’
But I contest;
‘How can one weather such emptiness?
That lovers have gazed at your fathomless bowel
But not one could enter with ten manly breaths and caress’.