We claim faith
in what we desire
though love dismember
us in unkempt thickets;
scalpels serrate our
fingertips, still
moths drawn suicidally
to flame embrace
the end of days
as if beginning.
Shall I carve you
from the tomb
grown round you
like the parapet of
an abandoned post;
a madman's solitary
castle? Is this the
reason seasons sing
of sinning with those
they desire most?
End to deadest
end with each
dull streetlamp
glowing, possessed
by firefly animulae;
hello, I must be going. |