I Read Your Words, and Felt A Wound Inside

I read your words

And felt a wound inside

I thought had healed

Millennia ago.

The damnéd twinge of

Deepest, dark regret

Revived, as if

Omnipotent half-gods

Had broke’ their vows

To crash into our world,

To lick our wounds,

And feast on sin again.

As to relive the earnestness of all

That once was us—

And ne’er shall be again.

As if the need to feel the damnéd hues

Of all our pangs,

Eclipsed their divine state;

Driving them mad to taste mortality—

To know the force that caused such souls

To die.

For death is sweet, to one who cannot die,

And love is pure, when ignorant of pain;

And men are noble, excellent, and kind,

Firmly ensconced in poetry and prose.

But death destroys the germ

Of all that’s good.

And love is deadly as a razor’s wail,

And men are mostly what we wish was not;

And poetry and prose is not real life.

And you are all I ever loved, and more.

And I am less than what I thought I was.

And love is vicious, villainous, and cruel,

When it’s sincere—and given to a fool.

And like these demi-gods, I, too, would fall,

To feel such love, and passion once again!

To know the souls interred in that dark place,

And resurrect, and mend our love’s disgrace.