Pt. 10

We were drunken by the waters,
you and I,
there never was a separation,
nor even isolation.
And thus consoled, I rose again, heady, heavy,
and sidled up to you,
invisible in the malignancy of your shadow.
You were surprised by the sudden of tenderness.
Oh, boy, oh, dear sweet boy',
as you writhed to the rhythm of expulsion's grip
and I trumped a fanfare within the schism.
And lace was better torn than worn,
and pearls a curly whirl of clichés,
for as it was in the beginning,
so we are forgotten in forgetfulness, you and I.
The gate was open, ever open that Lilith lit the moon
and we, in party to that, did collude, so soon, or else be timid and flee.
Then, when dawn challenged the thrall,
we would see again in the cold light and be appalled,
one by the other bicker bout love and its cruel demands.
But were we not wed despite our wedness?
Was it not in ignorance alone that we bled apart?
Should we have striven to make more of it all than there was?
Poetics? What poetics?
Our veins are run dry.
Then sip from this chalice that it might choke thee,
that verse might be a curse within the complacency.
Palaces were built here that we might be celebrated
before lost in crass opulence,
cathedrals also, that prostrations be performed,
or Calvaries hammered deep into deeper soils
than any we could know, least in the twilight of this mortal calling.
Then run, run that I might not touch thee again
nor taste the bile of attachment.
Run that you be free to run, to run from the terrors.

Yet, hand in hand, still we walk upon the tightrope awaiting the fall.
Could that not be some distant proof, some unearthly hope?
A confirmation? Conception immaculated?