The sharp and the bitter rise,
and the bleak and limitless stars show no emotion.
It is cold, always, here in the place of the living dead.
This is my tomb. This is my coffin.
I can exit it if I wish. But I do not.
I am the Mistress and this is my shrine, my shroud.
Only you see through.
Only you can fluidly dash silent, past my guards.
They bend for you, hushed and blind, without demanding your purpose.
At your feet, and with your whim, all falls silent in the furor.
You have those unbearable keys.
Why do you love me with pulsing veins, near to bursting?
Why do you love me then despise the touch, despise the connection, fear the vast ocean?
On a doomed ship, are we?
Why care so deeply, feel so fearlessly, for moments,
only to fly,
to dash so hard against the winds you called up yourself,
screaming out into the night, begging their full measure,
entreating them to wrap you up entirely in their sweet howls?
Cowardice will never tell.
--Love’s depths are never plunged and absorbed by those afraid of losing it all.
--One may touch the fabrics,
bid them swirl around your quivering form,
covering those erupting tremors with delicious and exquisite voices.
--One may taste the vintage and drink it down, over the tongue’s hungry reach.
You may feel it,
dive with it,
only to lose the reins as it rises and swarms every limb, ravaging exquisitely.
Despite all, these corporeal dainties are but the tassels of a rich, endless expanse.
They are mere footmen, smiling, and dutifully opening the doors of Love’s dangerous and beautiful, carpeted halls.
Afraid to live. Afraid to die. Languishing, are you.
Yes, I think so.
You touch these vibrative energies, then recoil.
Horror-struck and timorous, but thirsty for a petrifying swell of height, you are.
So helplessly hungry for that kind of little-death that only swells when a limitless connection of energies implode and blaze,
succumbing to a chthonic rush to the depths.
You crave shuddering forth softly, hitherto rising from ransomed ashes, as these, your broken pieces live.
Oh yes, saying yes to live still, . . . again.
Regardless, these lands in which I am half-frozen and coffin-cased, are not for you, perhaps.
You worry with Titanic thoughts, hoping the iceberg will for once, be merciful.
It has none to give; verily, you are the iceberg of your own ship, my Love.
You are a careful shriek against Mother Moon.
Marvelous and aching, feeling tantalized and quickened, but not so ready as you think, to risk it all.
Yet, you captain the ship, once more into the chaos,
Every time the ice slices, you realize what grand allure will sink and rest forever at the bottom of the very same ocean on which you bob.
Afraid of taking the wheel deliberately and guiding her into the depths to be broken and destroyed,
you stop and hang in the chains of a moment.
I say the iceberg only yields to the fearless jump,
the leap without worry.
It bows only to those captains willing to risk being
destroyed on the angry rock shores,
the sharp, hot edges of the Le Cœur Brisé.
Alas, the dank and ageless stars still show no emotion.
I am cold, sleeping fiercely,
waiting for the darkness to come so I may slink awake, and shiver into moonlit swathes.
Down across the breadth and depth of a wordless nocturne
where I find Lucifer,
Her warm hand takes hold, dancing me carelessly,
I, a willful slave.
Waiting.
Waiting for those unbearable keys to bring me back unto life . . . .
