Love, take my
voice I cannot speak your words.
Their congregation
worships at the foot
Not of your shrine
but my own altered use.
These tricks
once turned, a man cannot escape
His premonition
of such scenic truth
Through which
a mercenary poison flows.
The pooling light
that settles from the wound
Has flooded through
my senses and defamed
The earnest words
that sanctify the breath
Of one with no
reflection save their death.
Love, take my
eyes I cannot see the moon,
Its face has
faded dawnward from the sky.
Yet somewhere
on this continent of loss
In places dedicated
to our pain,
I heard the weeping
bride, as yet unwept;
I saw my end,
the tragedy that quelled
The broken beast,
when confidence was swelled
By acts untouched
by self or stained by truth;
I found the prescient
wing, when weak from flight,
Was worthless
to the independent thought.
