Immaculate

Iridescent black hole

What the hell could I say to you
That would illustrate the basest feeling
I hold in your regard?
I try to map out the perfect explanation,
Fit all the pieces together to make a whole
That is beautiful and moving,
Like a sweeping score that crescendos
Until the emotive climax that sends you to tears;
But every time I dare to utter a word,
The breath escapes my lungs
And I choke,
As though my subconscious recognizes
That to speak of you so inadequately
Is sheer sacrilege,
Because you are beyond labeling or possessing.
The immaculacy of your bravura
Devolves me into a nervous fit—
Worse each time than before—
For you are worthy of nothing less than unadulterated pleasure
And gifts even a monarch wouldn’t inherit;
But for all my posturing,
I am not the embodiment of grace or sanctity you are merited,
And to be anything less is to be undeserving of your majesty.

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Nefarious Emissary

Guilt

This is what happens when we play with fire:
We burn bridges down
Because we trifle with things we don’t understand.
As hard as I tried,
I could never fathom you
Or comprehend your virulent mechanisms.
In retrospect, it’s so easy
To say I was unjustly tasked with this onus,
But not all of us are interested in the easy choice;
And besides, I accepted my charge with verve.
But now I stand accused of treason
And have been found guilty by the Mother of Pearl,
Who even now tortures me with the wails of a banshee,
To remind me of the promise I broke,
The assurance I could not fulfill,
And the sins that will never be forgiven.
I thought I could be more than a corrupt courier,
A nefarious emissary
Prophesying apocalypse,
But in these narcissistic attempts at aid
I lost sight of the glory before me;
Now my tongue has been cut out
And I drown myself in the lamentations
Of zombified souls reeking with self-pity,
Accepting the embrace of the hollow,
The dead,
The solitary.

This Miserable Wake

Crystal Eyes

I thought it was I
Who would scathe you
With hostility.
How mistaken I was,
Now that I see the calumny
Behind those crystal eyes;
But it was I who put the blade
To the throat of our illusion
And laid it to rest with an admission
That should have remained unconfessed.
Now we stare at this cadaver
Born from my mistakes
And realize that resurrections are make-believe—
No burial, no last rite
For this unceremonious suicide;
But worst of all:
No forgiveness in your visage
As you look past me at every turn,
For the sacrilege I have committed
Has lain waste to any semblance of peace
That may have existed between us.
Give me the word, love,
And I will ebb from your life,
Taking with me all the guilt,
All the blame,
All the suffering I have left in this miserable wake.