it is the grief of Bragi and Apollo
that flowers wither and die.

ancient religions.  the cure and curse of man.
passions personified, deified.  made into words
that endure beyond the flesh and fluids
of our need to be merged with the divine.

nothing but the idols and temples
remain beyond the moment.

are there not yet goddesses who walk the night?
are there not yet whispers in the silent halls
that wend past my chamber and my tomb,
the womb of my immolation and resurrection?

it is the grief of Bragi and Apollo
that flowers wither and die.

so many broken chalices.  so many shattered vows.
so many craven cannibals among the sacred cows.
and we are but the story.  we are but the words.
we are made to burn and pass.  we are.  but not I.

what the blood cannot purchase, the soul consumes.
what the hunger strips from us is...everything.

show me the path.  teach me the dance.  make me yours.
there are so many parts of me yet salvageable.
there are so many parts of me that you would have use of
and that I would gladly give on an altar of madness.

it is the grief of Bragi and Apollo
that flowers wither and die.

I can, at a distance, with a word, with a dream or thought,
touch you in ways mortal flesh cannot and will not
for those gates are sealed against sentient degrees
of heat and seduction.  we give what we can, hollow.


William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.