Why offer me your burning hand?
your fingers, like medea's gifts
yet without her malevolence
that you know burn without marring the skin
slicing down, down to the core
straight to the shining tower of babylon
which holds the spirit of caesar's sin.

You know your searing touch weakens my grip
upon the ledge,
the cliff that I've clawed at,
scratching, clutching, grasping at its slick, steep surface
to reach the fabled yet familiar euphoria at the summit,
which I will reclaim once again
Without your gently murderous hand.