Your Jerusalem was not my Zion:
I praised your name and prayed to my icons;
I laid my innocence upon your bier
and let fires engulf me without fear;
I was truly convinced that lust was bliss,
that no lies were hidden behind your kiss.
I often daydreamed about our first kiss
and all that transpired before Zion:
it was a week of barely-concealed bliss
spent amidst my new best friends, my icons—
the ones who taught me that there's nothing fear-
ful about life or love, if you have beer.
We were sitting in the creek, drinking beer:
I kept thinking about wanting to kiss
you, wishing that we didn't have to fear
being found out. We would explore Zion
the next day; alone, I would climb icons
of rock and loneliness, and find my bliss.
In solitude I find no greater bliss
than placing humanity on a bier
along with its earthly vices: icons
of the seven great sins, whose deadly kiss
may divert us on our path to Zion
and leave us stumbling in darkness and fear.
Of the heights and depths, that which I did fear
the most was that middling would be our bliss.
With the night spent, I wandered in Zion
alone, building with each step our bier,
the pyres to ignite with our next kiss,
my love paid to no real men but icons:
mythologized memories; such icons
of honor, hope, and love, which I now fear
will crumble, faithless, by my pious kiss
and wrench me from purgatorial bliss.
So toss me one more funereal beer
to drown my sorrows: I drink to Zion.
In Zion, the bier was wrought of our bliss:
from icons we fear no more than we kiss.