A pair of poems for this moth's flame.
[Myth as Metaphor I]
(Nyx to Erebus)
Let her think me wicked and keep me
like an Enemy, closer than comfort.
Strife will stir without my hand, &
in truth,
I have no taste for apples or their
turning--though I may take a little
thrill in the Chaos caused in their
wake. That gold was stolen long ago
and I'll not weep for it now,
no matter what price you are
made to pay. Darkness is not
known to break, even as Fate
scrapes her naked blade against
his tenebrous thread, trying to
tug it like a leash--so let her
play. She may think herself
Inevitable, brother, but I
am the Night who bore her &you
my lover, children of the Void
knowing no difference between
genesis and Death, between no
and yes. We preceeded Destiny,
and Doom and Dawn descend
by our breath.
[Burnt Offering]
You were never a spark, never
some faint flicker hinting
innuendo. You went
right for the kill
filling me with flame
never tamed, never
thirsting for fuel.
Like brushfire you
burn beneath my skin
,a chaos creeping in
to all my thoughts--
what sweet scintilation
seduces me, reduces me
to ash that I scatter at
your breath. Oh lover,
I never knew how bright
I could burn till you
turned on this torch; and
now you scorch this flesh
bringing constant death &
dawning, leaving me to be
the phoenix, fluttering--
falling, flying! And I am
irrevokably yours.
Ain't no one gonna quell
this combustion. I'll be
ablaze until this
blistering bliss
consumes me whole,
creamates me from
cortex to core,
ether to gore:
all yours for
the taking:
scathed,
but saved, made
sacred by
sacrifice.