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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