Man of Sorrows (Frozen Door 3rd draft)

Among the asylum

of thrusting priests

I am nymph skinned,

bleeding freckles

on the silent tiled floor.

You plead martyrdom
as I chew the door handle.

I lose you on 'A Szerelem Szigetén'

in light dust lacing

but I am a sailor heaving

through indigo oils,

through labourers folded faces,

I press a fingernail

through waxen fruit,

drain the rivers to sand spines.

Man of Sorrows, fish hooked
fingers caught,

I hear your neck crunch

on Salome's pillow.