“Have you lost yourself in the hush of your dilecta?”
The dying lark crumples at the thorn of nature,
She is not perfect. If only I could remove the shadows
Brandished by dishonest cosmopolitan eyes, which resolve
Like earth to her body self-immolating on perfection,
So resolved, for disharmonious drones,
A dreary opiate of trepidation and antipathy
The languid intravenous of the “Ars moriendi”.
“And the skyline is a despot, thrashing with a pedantic light.”
Light dies atop her flesh, darkness will seek out new crevices
Moving from the inlets of scars shallow off of famine,
That speak in Homer’s tongue,“Το πλαστό του θανάτου.”
We will never share this place again, the immoveable bed
The ironic beauty that resides in our passing.
Because we are hopeless in our one life
“You will never be lovelier than you are now”
Because we are so agonized upon the field of love and demise
“You will never be more beautiful”
Because we are born ready to die
“You will never leave my mind”
Such a muse is unforgiving.
There was a time with hyacinths
I grew cold fetching them for you
You spoke of the rock, and of rust
While I coughed, and you drank coffee
(before Paranoia invoked calories)
There was dust after the Hesperides’ garden
It was frightening, for we were children
(Eris ravaged our little worlds for a decade)
Without the luxury of the Archduke's sled.
Like all, we find each other in the crying smoke
Our own specific corner
An apartment above King William Street
Where faces become pedantic with light.
Within the unreal city of flesh, dread, and pleasure
Frantic bodies chase each other below; dreading
To hear the other, but living to be heard.
I cannot bring to you a cure for the three staves,
"but I will try invoking a cure from within"
While we reside like a handful of dust, lonely and naked.