ON LOVE (AND DEATH)
What is love but a fool’s end game?
That binds the scourge of minds
like pawns; cannon fodder.
Pro patria mori, they say in jest
that love be brilliant. That hearts be earn’st.
What of love, but a one-way flame?
That we ourselves drown in sin
like angels; hollow bibles.
Dulce et decorum, we live a life
consigned to oblivion. Dreaming of heaven.
How now father? Reveal thyself under the guise of a hundred thousand signs,
for the cover of mine eyes is blinded second only by my love,
what Stars! what Heaven! but Hell itself?
I pray tithe father! If thou art holy nobl’d still
have mercy on my kinsmen,
for no flood can cleanse the stains of my citizen
till I myself am one with thee,
Yet if thou art wicked still, bite quicker,
for the almighty hath poison’d it, pray tithe:
Kill it.
Who I? A moment per millennia, a fading light,
part time slave to thy masters’ master,
dutiful servant to thine own, deep, dark, desires.
What passion still, with love for thee,
yet no more so for you and me,
A hefty heart, with no unbounded soul,
Ne’er to depart, with no darkness to grow,
Thy light. Which may emerge only whence dark,
The Mask. The Son. Hath thou forgotten what thou hath done?
I, father? Eyes see the beginning and end,
That which thou hath given pretence,
Thy creator’s creation creating existence,
While I, free and noble man; chained
by the confines of mine own mind.
Enlighten me father! For I repent mine sins,
what checkmates of philosophy’s great intelligence?
That by which thou art doomed like the king,
Slaughtered by cannons, with tunes thou’ll sing.
What marvels the mind may yet question mine,
As thou may watch over me, yet but a drop in the never ending sea.
Sometimes I pray’d that I’d succeed’d,
Or thou hath mercy enough to help me secede,
In thy midst of such anguish thou cannot spot a fool,
Yet I unknowingly, unwilling, unwittingly, a rusted old tool,
Guide me now father, for I dare’d seek another,
Without guidance, my mission hath faltered,
So comes the end of my bid,
Not by ego, but my id.
Now I break thee off! Hold thy tongue.
Free me father, as thou wilt do,
To the dimensions of rest,
Or consigned to the eternal test.
Yet not my will, but yours be done.
Yet not mine own, but yours alone.
A prophet’s profit.
An epitaph o’er the epigraph.
