Lastly, out of the wreckage of night,
came a shiver of thought, broken
by wanting. Terror stricken, I beheld
a two-headed triumph—a broken life
and a laurel crown, a woman’s distant
whimper and the shadows, the whirling
shadows lifting me toward the moon.
Exiled, silently weeping, I scorn the touch
of those who would be lovers and drink
the ash of a perfect doom. Shame and
scorn tie the knot in my overgrown heart
and all breath is a leaving, no boon or balm
can palliate my pain. I wake in terror—
there is no error to my shame. My prison
is boundless, my sentence eternity,
the cruel winds messengers of my fate,
and a desire that ever dissipates as
brooding death rears its head over the
horizon, whispering in a voice that chills
the blood the only truth a man can know:
“Come! You are too late!” And so, I drink
the poison.
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