Idolatry II

Dreams may unlock
these spirits,
sheltered within
the emotionally colored
stain-glass pantomimes--
spectrums of breath
and the unshatterable
endurance of the heart
to fill its
cages with such
untameable creatures
such as despair, love,
dreams, loss and forever.

Let the indolent locust
fiddle madly swoon and sway
through the heart
of a fading summersday,
fixed below the sun
and heavens.
For the night
is for those angry vampires
whom were once
only in love
with their possessions.

Transfixed by falling stars
which it is only the darkness
we can ever keep,
the eye missing within the undertow,
praying unto spirits
both unknown and
some that bleed familiar.

Yet, just whom or what
will lead us unto
the god at
the end of the road...

For whatever may find you there,
desperately clinging to the artifacts
of those simple childhood wishes,
and a trace of permanence sewn
by with those imaginary lines
and rhythmic tide of memorae
swell against the rags and patches
of what we had once believed
must be real.

There is nothing conquerored
and no soft capture in an isle love,
love-me-not; perhaps love me never again...
Pounding throes through
the delicate veil of shame
and budding sensual flesh.
The slick pearl grown
to irritate
the blood engorged bed
of quivering muscle,
passionate mind;
its mad-cravings
for touch
against raw
open nerve endings.

While the night winds howl
and burn into their lungs
the sensation of breathlessness,
for only a moment
of shuddering helplessness,
before a still collapse
catches the traces
of doubt, like death,
before you become bitter-sweet,
in the lover's eye.

Yet ah... how
she may have loved
me once, when I was
young and still
believed in immortality.

In a panic of youth,
I left her there,
where she was
still beautiful and lonely.
Passions unsate
upon warm milk;
restless within a disturbed bed
of the most obdurate sympathies,
that she had to force herself
to learn to sleep alone again.

I have become her
most terrifying ghost,
and she my pretty
little witch
whose spells still
condemn me to
such an imperfect memory.

I have never fucked her
out of my soul,
though my heart kept
nothing but the impurities.
Like ashes sprinkled
and spread o'er that last
unhealthy place...

Once, perhaps when we
truly believed in perfection,
it may have been sacred.
The rituals may have been simple,
but the religion was far too complex.

For the different
gods that we
found at the end of the road.