watching him die
I held him in dominion, gently as he wept, licking the salt from off his skin. I made love in placid locus, bereaved him of his breath while rapt in angry fervor. He made my body his shelter, trembled on a precipice, worshiped while inside... surrendered, left surfeit and succumbed. In wild nights and tempestuous days we loved like King and Queen, willing that the world would never end.
He was the wicked demon who had dared not dream; the wanton swaggerer, the narcissist with craven soul. He was the merciless fighter, the malignant blood-hunter, the mercenary with tales untold... unredeemable, disquieted, and summarily condemned.
He was the fascinating mystery; an angel with blackened wings. A heart-shaped box nailed shut from outside in... adroitly blessed with etched beauty, carved and uncustomarily craved. Slow and somewhat torturous, I climbed inviolable walls, made his blood my own; the selfsame nocent venin that ran serpentine circles amidst my veins. I saw with his eyes, felt with his hands, and shared the manna from one host.
But something slipped, drifted and changed; meaning lost amongst the vine. A nothingness now settled where once had been gold. Spectored in fashion so deplorably weary, this beggar-man his hands outstretched, starving in the cold. Aimlessly he searches for a dwelling in fabricated illahie. More insistent now to ramble towards fata morgana, than all those he'd pointed a finger at before.
And these days he's bled dry. Sobered like one more sentimental fool. A broken messenger, exiled from Elysium. Penitence for sins committed, culpability for iniquity immense. No exoneration on the horizon or clemency for endemic ennui. A lost and empty offender, carrying a heart without a home. I've been the depth and breadth and there are no illusions left I can't transcend.
You are not the man I fell in love with... I realize now you murdered him long ago.
He was the wicked demon who had dared not dream; the wanton swaggerer, the narcissist with craven soul. He was the merciless fighter, the malignant blood-hunter, the mercenary with tales untold... unredeemable, disquieted, and summarily condemned.
He was the fascinating mystery; an angel with blackened wings. A heart-shaped box nailed shut from outside in... adroitly blessed with etched beauty, carved and uncustomarily craved. Slow and somewhat torturous, I climbed inviolable walls, made his blood my own; the selfsame nocent venin that ran serpentine circles amidst my veins. I saw with his eyes, felt with his hands, and shared the manna from one host.
But something slipped, drifted and changed; meaning lost amongst the vine. A nothingness now settled where once had been gold. Spectored in fashion so deplorably weary, this beggar-man his hands outstretched, starving in the cold. Aimlessly he searches for a dwelling in fabricated illahie. More insistent now to ramble towards fata morgana, than all those he'd pointed a finger at before.
And these days he's bled dry. Sobered like one more sentimental fool. A broken messenger, exiled from Elysium. Penitence for sins committed, culpability for iniquity immense. No exoneration on the horizon or clemency for endemic ennui. A lost and empty offender, carrying a heart without a home. I've been the depth and breadth and there are no illusions left I can't transcend.
You are not the man I fell in love with... I realize now you murdered him long ago.