The Texts

I wrote this poem, but i'm not sure if I want to share what it's about.
You can make up what you want from it.

The woman's womb is a blazing oven from which life springs forth. Men are its dough, the lump of fresh bread laid there with hope. All aspire to this—to be placed there, to bake within it, so that from their united efforts a new and fresh bread might arise, their bread, and that the cycle of existence may endure.
But we, my love, are not an oven and a lump of dough. We are merely two loaves of bread, content in the fact we can rot here, side by side and together.

And we do not fear death as they do, or at least we fear it less, for we gaze upon it and live by it every moment, knowing that we allow decomposition to creep into us a little more with each passing instant, and that the earth will materially pierce through us when, from our very guts, the seeds and shoots of life will spring forth.

Then we realize that we are alive, that we are death, and that nothing will ever extract us from the yoke of this world. And while they race toward eternal life, we decay here, my love, upon this very ground, content to love one another and to simply be, together, for the forces of existence have taught us that we already have eternal life.