Poetry 1

(Just because it was suggested I post it here. After all, it’s been posted elsewhere.)

 

 

For I made of your body a temple, wherein

I fashioned virtue from vice and saintliness from sin;

Where, for love of you, I erected an altar

And sang to you hymns culled from the psalter

of my most boundless affections.

For you are that priestess, that abode of men

Wherein all things are made new. Now and again

Reforged in fires that burn, but don’t consume,

For in you all that is Woman has been subsumed.

Mother and lover, virgin and whore,

All these you are. These, yes and more

That the tired tongues of men cannot utter.

For I cannot call to you from this profound abyss

That holds me, unransomed, save by your kiss;

The soft, shining glory of your eyes,

The embrace of your arms and the warmth of your thighs.

A salvation, offered ever at your whim

Through entwining tongues and tangled limbs

That lead my soul to joyous repose.

Yet scarred I remain by the kisses you gave

That tempted angels to sin and emptied the graves

Of their long and lonely dead. Reawakening them to

This sun-drenched world of longing. For you.

How, then, can I fail to answer your siren call?

When the pain of separation is nothing

And the joy of union is all?

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