They called me an iconoclast
Blessed
With a templar-like fervor,
Fueled by my devotion
To the intangible potentate, Logic --
Omnipresent, omnipotent.
But how could I be?
Not with Katarina and Bianca
Still resting in grottoes.
Not when I still stop by now and then,
Meandering in from my countless excursions,
Traipsing about in my mind,
To leave a few trinkets
And light some candles
And maybe a murmured prayer.
Those snapshots of memory
Revisiting me on rare occasions now,
But not a moment of recollection goes by
Without remembering
Katarina
Writhing beneath my grip,
Her slender fingers entwined with mine,
Or Bianca
Enclosing me in her warmth,
Her gnarled hands reeking of cigarettes.
Their I love yous, I like yous,
Whispers and kisses,
All branded on my skin.
No, sir.
Label me not
As one,
Not when I still keep their memories
On a pedestal,
Not when I still heave sighs
Of longing and fondness
To herald in nostalgia
And its hangers on,
Regret and despair,
However blasphemous.
An iconoclast I am not.
Anything but.
Revile me
For exalting heretics.
I deserve the rack and the stake
For becoming
Just as much a heretic
As the ones I was tasked to condemn.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 1:45 AM UTC
They called me an iconoclast
Blessed
With a templar-like fervor,
Fueled by my devotion
To the intangible potentate, Logic --
Omnipresent, omnipotent.
But how could I be?
Not with Katarina and Bianca
Still resting in grottoes.
Not when I still stop by now and then,
Meandering in from my countless excursions,
Traipsing about in my mind,
To leave a few trinkets
And light some candles
And maybe a murmured prayer.
Those snapshots of memory
Revisiting me on rare occasions now,
But not a moment of recollection goes by
Without remembering
Katarina
Writhing beneath my grip,
Her slender fingers entwined with mine,
Or Bianca
Enclosing me in her warmth,
Her gnarled hands reeking of cigarettes.
Their I love yous, I like yous,
Whispers and kisses,
All branded on my skin.
No, sir.
Label me not
As one,
Not when I still keep their memories
On a pedestal,
Not when I still heave sighs
Of longing and fondness
To herald in nostalgia
And its hangers on,
Regret and despair,
However blasphemous.
An iconoclast I am not.
Anything but.
Revile me
For exalting heretics.
I deserve the rack and the stake
For becoming
Just as much a heretic
As the ones I was tasked to condemn.
