Be thou art the sealer of worlds
The temperer of passion's flame
Thou art a mountain in the gale
Anchor of a vessel
Overflowing and straining hard
Towards the tempest pool
Cleaveth thee the reddened night
Upturned are the naked hours
From thy hand is an icy light cast
Purge the outgrown sinews
Defrock the concupiscent salvator
Every gate is shut
Yet I prise at their burning edge
What oasis fires my dreams
That an ache as old as the sun
Be quenched and peace at last
May rest my head, laid without shame
Or trace of unguent ardour
Though rift horizons are scaled
With less convincing strength
The star hangs glistening out of reach
Power of wealth is dust
Flesh ossifies, and colour
Rises a sickly milk.
@nepion_boreas17
