The Luv'sic' Waste of D Henry Allwein, Part Ii
II. Paralysis U[sic]
Shy one, shy one,
Shy one of my heart,
She moves in the firelight
Pensively apart;
Linger now with me, thou Beauty,
On the sharp archaic shore.
Surely 'tis a wastrel's duty
And the gods could ask no more.
If thou lingerest when I linger,
If thou tread'st the stones I tread,
Thou wilt stay my spirit's hunger
And dispel the dreams I dread.
You
Touch me: crown me a King David that never lusted for Bathsheba.
You
Spit me: a gloam streak of magma to fade ‘way into this withering world.
You
Comfort me: a lone piece of pollution skirting 'round the Hudson River.
You
Murder me: crown me with your startling thorns, then viddy my Arbor Cruoris.
Yet You
Know me: the outlier; the castaway; the Monster of Victor.
You.
Out of those mere flickers ‘leashes Gaia's roiling green;
of breath,
such softness as spooled in heavens only we can dream.
Eclipsing fire by water lyre: siren of yore sans ill intent—The Elixir,
the eternal giver of felicity, ambrosia solace, lustrous Pleiades, 777, &c.
I implore, hear now my prayer:
Do remain that sunny Ark,
and give not your essence true
to that Scar—hark! Neither unto the White Shark. Call me Ishmael
Evermore
in this hilted world of horror
that knows best only of war: the abysmal yonder, yet—
O’er Gehenna prevails: a Genesis
U Exist My Paralysis
Copyright © Richard H. Dunsany | Year Posted 2017
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