How I hark to hear you speak - O!, as the
Hyacinth's name warbles in my throat,
so any sound I make of you is a holy
thing - not that you are holy, Dear,
no saint art thou in the wild waste of life.
But you and I might ordain each other,
make a garden of an uglier acre.

This garden though is full of sprites:
  some make the flowers grow.
But on night's quiet (you hear them, I know)
whispers come up from the old and rotting soil;
little but ancient demon things, dead and grey,
and hungry for the living's flesh and breath.
I am their brother, I fear, portent of death.

I fear not if they consume me away,
  while I water your lilies. 
No, I fear my blood too is eldritch,
and you must flee me in panic's dread.
Such is my nightmare from which I wake:
  do not, Love, fall down it too.
Let us never dream the same night-terror;
dreaming at once is reality's tenor.

No, instead, I prophesy a poetic 
Drift of fortune's steps in fate's labrynth. 
We know for sure all is full of devils -
  we, too, are full of terrors.
But the future belongs to the serene gods,
and I see their blood going through our veins,
the river that courses and for our love drains.

Featured image: ‘Starry Night,’ by Jean-Francois Millet (c. 1850-1865), image in the public domain.

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2 thoughts on “Heritage”

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