poe

when the moon is empty,
hiding like crocus in
the belly of winter.
and the sun sleeps, no longer
wishing to dance its ballet.
will it be then,
generations after i am dead
that my soul shall be content?
not assaulted by the crusade
of intimacy in my heart.
should this be my concern?
will the well of promise
quench this thirst i suffer?
the magic of my desires
disappear like smoke.
winds speak to me
by gods not crippled.
minutes of torment no longer
critical of each breath i take.
nevermore shall i worry
the castration of my tongue.
worms devouring my flesh.
will i love more the ivory
of neurotic bones?
my death be more
gleeful than my birth.
i celebrate the raven
and the warmth of the soil.

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