What was the purpose of our time in Cythera;
But to honor the Goddess of beauty and love.
What was the purpose of our time after Cythera;
But to honor her temple, a euphonious sanctum
Cast at the accord of our hands.
Bear with me.
It was not solitarily you that I found
Under Aphrodite's young shadow.
There were suitors strapped to the lambent horizon
Offering Lydian silver and rubels of blue jade-
Glittering sublimely august in its baronial pageantry.
Yet their words held bandy, I harbored disdain,
And all the while, a trembling light shined
Through holes in their souls.
None can survive as you've taken from me!
And I ask of you, to the people passing
Mild-mannered in the streets,
Give me deliverance.
Our thoughts are protected by the potency
Of laurel leaves, so thus.
I spend my youth, a vagabond, wasting no
Folly on you, so thus it be-
One shall not drink from the chalice of
Holy water to be made whole,
One must come forth with verity and troth
On their hands demanding to quench upon
A fountain of blood!
Likely fluid of appetence!
Prurient descendance of life!
Like a Bacchic rite I am entitled
To endure this crucible,
To desire to rest my head upon your lap
And whimper there for all of time.
Infernous man,
Grant me this passage of Gloria.
Pray you, eventual of the hour,
To hither save the passing frost,
Save the dumbing bodies, and
Save us from the servitude of
Modern days.
To yesterday, we shall pray for
Redemption of our divided ways.
Today, I laugh at the folly of
Internal Mesmer.
Instantly, an epiphany begs
For my open ear.
Have you seen the face of
Mortal understanding?
It is angelic in its ageless confession.
O' Folly of Mesmer,
You have led me astray.
It is not man who will give me deliverance.
It is only I.
1 comment:
This is my story.
Where spreads apace slowly
Through the lingering deceits of evil days
A memory, a fragment of chainless winds.
A widening gulf from which now I am thrown ashore.
Ere I seek evanishment of these turgid and benthic depths
And yearn for more limpid sophic waters than those of my
Bothered and restive youth.
The strength of my fiery young flesh was
Slowly drained by the venal blandishments of impetuous expectation.
Crashing hence in shards of glittering ruin I awoke
To ten thousand miles of winding churn and clammering
Brutish fire.
Burned from the last rays of ancient sunlight
The carnage vast and outspread, the charnel roof
The forge of Hephaestus threw billows of poison
Into the vital air.
Laid in the black rush, drest as a bridesmaid
A spirit with palsied tongue and dark charred heart.
My soul
Alone
Perched on the endless horizon of a smog-torn sunset.
This is the face of mortal understanding.
The epiphany that begs.
An angel that in her seraphic kindness should
Come to wrest from your lips a chalice of blood
And with hand outspread, invoke a parade of sylvan sprites
For us to worship even as they heal our brooding discomfort.
This is our story.
It is not of mortal bonds or the
Quickening treachery of a bestial floor
That mesmerizes a sordid lot.
There is an unremitting sorrow in our ineluctable senescence,
But I know that in the moment, in the aëreal eyes that kindle day,
Shall be found a taper burning.
And I will place upon your head a bejeweled and oblate diadem
Not to deliver, to sire, or to own.
But to celebrate our time beneath these Ionian skies.
It is not I that has taken from thee.
Nor will it be I who delivers.
Yet in this circle of fire we might yet find solace.
In the smoking black ruins beneath the shadow of this Beast
In the denuded landscape there I see a faint scintilla glimmering from Beneath the blackened dross.
This I call love.
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