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God is dead

To Nick and Mihangel

Empty.

I remember the baseless fabric:
A dancing face (mine? his?) in lily-virgin
And I, worm, gnaw the apple of my eye.
Thistles do not dance.
Endgame. Cascando. Rough.

What where?

Stars flash flood fall before my eyes,
A kamikaze ecstasy.
Fireflake breathes terrible pentecost,
Apocalyptic. Pierced, dissolved,
Consumed.

It passes.
Flame fades, untouchable,
And I am left ash,
Squalid body shaking with a nomad glory,
Crying for my young gods,

Empty again.

This poem is © 2004 Connla, to whom comments may be sent.

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