the ambrosia of fools

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.