The Oft Welcoming

The world falls away and I am left with a golden
sigh, glittering in the damned darkness that haunts us
all – too weak, too unfeasible, too rapturous in
her melody, and yet she glowers like some
distanced sun, some far-off star I only see in
dreams, when my mind has sunk into that realm
of disenchantment and nothing is left but a breath
of fresh air.

I gasp, and I gasp, and in the background a man holds
his sobbing child. A dagger hangs from his neck, and
he does not move. Neither tear nor curse escapes his mouth.

Where have the moths gone? The summer moths that
hung on hot, summer lanterns in the pit of the night –
they disappeared, froze and shattered into a twelve piece
orchestra, seated in the heralds of the gloomiest forest
of all, the forest inside everyone of us, of fear, of
hate, the undying place where spirits lurk and monsters
breath the hackles off our backs, where sunlight is but
a dancing wish and the girl, my girl, has died years ago.

Silence is the way, the way to the fields engrained with
gold, with silver, with bronze, where the crucified slaves
whisper against the tumult of video screens and bright,
flashing cameras, and roman legions glint in undefying
sun, and the hounds of hell snarl and rage, and bite off
a woman's head. Her body goes limp, and topples to the ground.