A Manifestation of Stomping-Ground Syndrome #2

It's perverse the way I look at you sometimes.
The devil, the angel, both mixed and intertwined
When I look into your island of eyes.
I am purged.
Dress me down beyond your plays
On fair innocence fortunate wrath
To spare the child-like soul still left in me.
Well, we were won. Guarded by a tree
Beneath the naked, wounded sun.
In my twists and turns of a heart and a mind,
Somewhere in the valves that are exempt from time
I carry forth the driven love
With every drive of life and blood;
How all your presence there defines my every thought
Of what it means to find a home.
The devil-driven angel in you sheds a tear
For the beauty not imposed by any distance
We may tear between us.
Burned inside a gilded cage, left unwanted
By the most,
A vagrant heart like yours, so full of life,
Can spare no disregard.