The Ambrosia of Fools
A heartsick giant, the truest hand;
a scion of hatred, awful night;
in sickness and in health the stalker wraiths,
his own shadow an ailment before him.
Lest he fall, fall with him. Lest
the pillars of men crash loudly in the
abandonments of natural mysticism,
lest your soul be lifted to the cloudless sky,
the stars in love with the mirrored lakes
a haze of fog, smog and death.
A heartsick piriah, no; forget him not.
The birds cast shadows on their line,
the birds cannot see but meals of gnashing
spiders; the birds cannot love
with arms flailing to embrace a brokenhearted
someone in the coming of the dawn.
The empty abyss is staring, waiting for it's prey.
What will you say when the last poet dies?
When the music has left on the black moon
sunset dancing over wicked peaks of sky scratching
masouleoms in the belly of the heartless city?
What will you say when your fathers fall from the
heavens with the weight of murder? They will leave
an imprint of a white hand marking ties that have
unthreaded under the microscope of the opaque moon.
When you will lust, you will find a beautiful damnation,
the withering taste of nectar, the ambrosia of fools;
when the satelites of men crash from the sky like meteors of
love, only you will count the bodies that you
have left behind in age and only you
can twine the threads of fraying reason;
the world is more than love,
a timeless, wicked thing.