The whore's lines
still felt neat.
Her warmth permeated
this cylindrical diaphragm
of disease and desire
as to offset the persistence of time
in the waking hours of dawn.

Lucid we were still
as wine goblets
all but poured themselves
in this privy of the priory
the broken roof of a church belfry.

Cataclysm and barbaric bravery
coat tailed the lust
in the stories of our heroes
and we gassed about drinking wine from your core.

The moon fell then
a sudden sweeping
planetary night drop
that shattered her to stardust
which now covered our eyes.

Still in this half-dream
as the church cinders of the world
dance like fireflies above our heads;
I'm left with this aching longing
as I awake alone again...

In a house full of loved ones.

08/14/2014