When she folds into me and weeps, The world of empty things falls into me Like the wetness of July in antiquated Rome, Mother of tears, Mater Lachrymarum, in Forum stone, The rain-addled veneers of Octavia’s portico.
Gather up these black sickened bellies of ruins, Turn them out to make hunger the den of the skies, Let the cracked whisper of each monument and temple Breathe as Caesar, in unending stillness like a bare road.
A road is the sadness of seeing our beginning But knowing love its far-off end is foretold.
Rome's majesty hangs in the night air in a haze of amber and gold illuminating the domes and cypress trees and clinging to our newly infatuated cheeks like a million droplets of citrine mist conjured from the knowing mischief that imbues the age-old streets
Our formerly suppressed smiles break their bonds and creep up our faces to sparkle from our eyes as our fingers entwine and the columns and porticos look on winking at us, nudging us, urging us to cavort with olives and wine and revel in decadence with the ancients
We cross a bridge over the River Tiber a dark shimmering ribbon that subtly beckons us to gaze at its glory and reminds us like a sly grandfather that while the city is eternal we are just mortals and every second of magic is there to be grasped
Accepting its sage, I squeeze her hand making her gasp and bite her lip. I climb up and sit on the edge of the bridge she joins me and brushes the hair from her face revealing cheeks that flush pinker by the second. We stare at each other in silence against a backdrop of timeless radiance
Her chest rises and falls but filled with the steel of Caesar's legions I lean forward and cradle her soft, glowing face and inhale her sweet, warm breath before our lips brush and fizzle with delight caressing softly as the static crackles until we pant for air
We adjust, reconnect and sink back into each other in a swirl of saffron hued enchantment merging with the city and time as three millennia of history alights in rapturous applause, to relive its ecstacies through our perishable young flesh
Those that weep, oh weep ‘neath the shadowy, masked spectre of dreamless sleep, where time refuses to define the state of the lost divine. These are feeble sheep whom tragedy is want to reap, whom when faced with fire turn away from the truth of its healing heat, it is the Shepard’s of the herd who hurdle false virtues with tenacious leaps.
But why oh why should the best of mankind’s minds all dwell on the tortured side of hell? They either submit to their anguished musings or are crowned with the fruits of their immaculate offerings, there is no compromise. But who has brought back from the abyss, the truth of it? and who only offers the seedlings of their sufferings?
Was it Nietche shielding the beaten beast of burden? Was it Mark Twain is his converse between young and old, of which motor best foretold mans immortal soul? Was it Nero playing his fickle fiddle whilst Rome was razed to rubble? Was it Jim Morrison dying with his wine upon the vine whilst Indian ghosts crowned his fragile eggshell mind? Was it Bobby Dylan with his ever changing soul touching his bones via lucrative lexicon? Was it Julias Ceaser as he crossed with hardened heart across the rubicon? Was it Buddha sitting ‘neath the quiet of his tree whilst the void whispered to thee? Was it Jack Kerouac upon that rolling road of soulful life, embracing with equal measure all love and ceaseless strife? Was it the nameless brave whom have been lost to the ages of times endlessly cascading pages? Will it be You in your pursuit of what your inner vision holds true? Will it be me in my turbulent sea of bleeding dreams? None can say but death itself, for he holds the skeleton keys
I used some of Jim Morrisons poetry to articulate the truth of his condition, I hope this leans within fair use, I will revise if otherwise
Ivory towers only seek to alienate; The ones who cherish an elephants grace. For those who build their homes out of the bones of a dying world will proudly play their fiddles as all of the chaos and riddles of a burning Rome unfurls