Those amaranth lips are tainted
With poison; I watch it drip
Down that delicate chin,
Itching to have a taste.
It has been said that we are born sick,
But I only live
To fuel this disease, this tumour -
The urge to heed
The cowards' words
Is just a parasite upon
What it is that we live for;
What it is that we truly are.
I know she feels much the same:
Those lips are almost touching mine,
Hot breath heavy against my face,
Intoxicating - it pulls me in.
No urge so natural should be wrong;
I wonder if it is not us who are sick,
But who am I to say?
Who is the priest, and where
Is his god?
At least I know what it is that I am,
And I know that my Goddess
Lies beneath me now,
The amaranth, the nectar, from her lips
Smeared across my face and neck.
Her lips linger just beside mine,
Warm breath embracing my cheeks:
It calls me home.
YOU ARE READING
Refraction.
PoetrySo many aspects, colours and themes make up our experiences. Truly, is anything entirely good or entirely bad? Upon weighing up the positives and negatives of the past, do we not admit that even tragedy is- in a twisted sort of way- advantageous? O...
