Detached, our distant smiles seem for another,
for another dream that might insist upon one happiness,
joined in the winter by a fine fire of our hearts content;
Upon this earth, we are but slaves to love:
to give and to be received, to take and to be taken.
My heart yearns for the in between, and yet for the extreme...
To be eviscerated by the spinning flame and scattered by the wind,
to feel the torrents of a thousand wounds, and to taste blood and sulfur on my tongue
and yet still compelled to love, though selflessly compelled.
Silent bonds to lap at the nectar of your heart
lull me deeper, deeper, into the altar of your mystery,
showing the distance between us; the cold and heat are but a dream
to be accepted, learned, and in learning lost.
I have sung songs for you, on the triad steps you stand,
Perfect in the eyes of men, and in me a seraph, yet my impatience climbs those steps,
grasping at the subtlety of your stares.
For you I would stand alone, watching without a care,
wondering, and wandering the earth, lying with some woman, deaf to her heart
that beats like yours, and only yours
Simple condemnation breathes into my neck,
through my lungs, and from my breast
curled into the center, emanating vibrant
warmth of the hidden fire consolation from my face;
I know that you are the mystic heart,
sent to consent my transcendental start
in life as in death, and in death as in pre-life
to discover the mystery of our mystery.
