Love’s Flatline

Image by Karolina Grabowska from Pixabay

Science cannot explain

the transient rising of the blood wave,

or heartbeat knives as cyanide

taking turns to carve their signature

in soul stone at the sun’s maiden rays.

It was the fluorescence.

It was the song of consciousness –

silken, madness and reverie-begotten.

It was the heart beyond the thresholds of haze

and the creed of the adrift and forgotten.

It was the dual scaled, mercurial, and golden threads

in amphorae that pour the light which shadows shrieked to consolidate.

And science cannot explain the keys bronzed by the path foreseen

in the soil from which branches the willow tree.

Wound from the Cold Torch

Image by emsalgado from Pixabay

Wail the winter of thy harvest.

Forbear to sacrifice the sun to the hoarfrost;

for the river ran its course with the autumn laws.

Bleed upon the tombstone of thy own core.

Withhold thy kiss from the lips of loss,

and thus thy hands from the sepulcher of love.

Return to the void whence thou crawled’st,

and with thee take the subjugating chains of conscience.

Illusionist and woe of serpentine discordance,

be exiled to the gutter of the fallen!

Remember what was to thee promised:

there is no life for thy venomed calling.

The Sightless Star

Rue the enchantments

self-whipped into the skin of copper.

Bemoan!

Feel contrite at the sight of the blindness of the light.

Melodist whose path engenders cockroaches

far from grate, stroke, and grace,

let me not see the astray longing in the gemstones of your eyes.

Creator who denies the sovereignty of his might,

compelled be to crawl through the apertures of my delight.

Sing, child of moss and raindrop!

Take my hand, being of rust and summer glow!

I’ll take you to the kingdom of the lost,

and rob you of your life with a single touch.

Incarnate the tunnels of pandimensional growth and spiraling sorrows,

so that you experience joy nonjudgemental in the morrow.