Anathema

and perhaps the chaos
wracked each perilous hour
and the masochistic wreck
of my annihilated virtue
devastated the sweet idyll
landscape of foregone youth.

and it’s true that the potent
novocaine of indifference
left me fumbling with every
letter that facons your name.

forgetting the pale
undulations of your skin
underneath my
tremulous fingertips
came easier than I’d like
to admit.

and I welcomed the violent
ransack of our secret Jerusalem,
hearkened irrevocable excommunication
with the incendiary fervor
of a zealous heretic,

and watched the sun set
on the unholy wasteland
of shattered hallelujahs.

but today the lights went out,
and the apocalyptic documentary
reeled in double-time
as a slow accent declared
the cataclysm we’d already witnessed,

and the quiet aftermath
of vacant homesteads and
nameless death and graves
effaced by the black wave
of lifeless faces rolling over the screen
wrought a stillness that I
could almost call holy.

and darling, under all this
scarlet bravado
and intellectual machismo,
the cheap plastic trophy case
that I curate with pallid devotion,
the nihilistic irreverence for every
god that ever scorned me,

you are still the cynosure
of my dearest hope,
the fleeting grace that makes this
sisyphic quotidian
a pain that I can live with.

your arms,
mortal but somehow more than,
are the surest haven
I could hope to embrace
in this tar-stained, scar-laced existence.

and I still love you,
and I haven’t forgotten,

and I’m hoping you’ll let me say it
before my apathy beckons
and erases the last aurulent vestige
emblazoned beneath my eyelids.

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