No man, having scourged the altars of Aphrodite,
can offer his heart acclaiming: I am inviolable, pure
I serve only One, this my vanity & all!
For in the quick span of funereal light
his mouth coughs up ash & imaginary blood
molt of snakes & mandarin rub:
Nor can he weep: I have gone, therefore sung
& having sung, now blessed with talisman—
For his limbs rot, his heart fructifies
in eons of interior winter, parables of mud;
Or bearing gifts, offer a crown, a covenant:
I, infidel, am beholden to only One
renewing matrix—venerable unicorn—of the mad;
It is ordained, have the human right to construct
an empire of flowers, more powerful roots of love!
A storm of leaves breaks, the cathedral cracks:
Thus bereaven I face the iron door & silently knock.