There is reverie; there is silence,
Amidst all the death—
the blackness,
Incredible pain,
All in God’s name.
Angles of death,
They shunt and they fume,
Fuelled by fiery steam,
By dissonant thrums—
Yet somehow God prevails
In these holy travails.
Death-throes: golden-black;
Joy in sorrow.
Silent, sibilant hisses
From dark, deathly kisses—
And the knife never misses.
The jugular pulses—
an excited twitch.
The neck presented;
the wretch contented.
See the sun blaze
in the son-kissed earth;
Hear the grace
in the sound of its mirth.
Time—she stands,
stands firm with the hope
Of the bloody red banquet,
from the joyful red throat:
The arch of the neck,
the loosened back collar,
Yet the scent of defeat
in the eyes of the dead.
Where is thy sting,
O wonderful death?
Where is thy pain
now that fate rears her head?
Where is thy violence
in this beautiful grace—
When one sits in the lilies
and stares in thy face?