What pain awaits, doth come love to know?


Hesiod and the Muse, Gustave Moreau, 1891

ere it mists into, to take, not ward, a careful form
eyed with wonder to behold, liberating to some souls
unless, until the silver chains, carried, hefted
by jealousy, greed, anger, vanity, glide, slide
forward slowly, sinuously, twined, locked, clasp
around heart, soul, binding tightly, unnoticed
too late to reject, unclamp, escape the scars
what name should we give to this intertwining
lust, love, morphing into a dreaded existence?
once lit that burn a ferocity of phosphorus glow
crematoria intensity that burns all to ashes.
stirred loss, whirling, spinning into a spiral
a dusty wind of a devil’s delight in the chaos
wonder not at the zealot, love of his bright lone star
he goes forsworn by all other in his deadly, societal clash
last love is all that is left to fill the breach, dark hole
religious vanity leached by sorrow when his human touch recedes
grasp an image, proof of life, called idolater, fervor burning
fury, fiery of an ideal, wavering before him, tempting gifts
lies all, betrayal of all that is known, identity lost in causes
life when young, truth was, life, laughter, joy, now slipped away,
gone, the vacuum doth fill with insipid raucous laughter, at pain
the Devil’s Cauldron to be sipped from slowly, or drunk deeply
no apologies, no amount of money, will obliterate betrayal and lies
of all humanity, still we cling to the hope, faith, of a peaceful life

Categories: Poetry

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