No celestial being will ever descend the misty ether
to complement my wishing and seeking
for its eternal presence.

None who are worthy of such adoration will ever chance
to stoop to move me out beyond myself,
to send me hurtling down the long, contemplative spiral
of the Self toward the focal point of Existenz.

Identity is elusive; for me there is no focal point, no center
of recognition and acceptance with which to make my defense.

Identity is infectious, a problem that plagues. Like the Fall,
the Delphic Oracle must remain unheeded.

Perhaps I am too tainted; perhaps I am impure.
Perhaps I would be blinded by the brightness of their glory.

No, I am quite certain that those who sit among the stars
will never be moved by pity or by suffering to breathe
the breath of Eros that flings me out
beyond this solitude; none will ever come to bestow me with
the presence and embrace I so passionately seek and desire.

None