Sunday, January 13, 2008

Nyx (The Birth of Eros)

My black, immense wingspan encompasses
all nothingness in intimate expanse,
singing of an unseen wonder: colored
grass, the many-splendored tribunal. I

myself will never see it. This is no
complaint—the paintbrush of an eyelid is
often worth more than any number of
bodily sensings, and no mere light waves

could yet contain the vibrations of a
soul; it is the inexpressible most deserves
expressing. Suddenly, a stir:
movement within this warm sphere beneath me—

The product of my own lonely love; a
Home for a godly love never to cease.

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