The Chasm

1796562_4000106738565_1688327079_n__3_by Diovanni Lemans15 Feb 2014

Betwixt the borders of vain uncertainty you lay in the puddles of a lugubrious lust that tintinnabulates like a spell spoken by the naïve tongue of a toddler trying to describe the sound of the moon. Unable to find the words amongst his handfuls of burgundy coloured regrets; for there is such a place and a feeling as being too in love with the light of your own heart. Tossing and turning within the binds of your own moan that wakes you in the night, only to realize that the prettiest thing you’ve ever known has yet to grace the threshold of your lips. There you stand kissing at the coattails and windswept froths of hair that run damp with blackness: the scent of a figure you very well know, but cannot name by face. This unrecognizable lust is a pulsating vigor that seeks refuge from the all-seeing light of Lucifer’s gaze in the death of sunlight—the crimson want for coitus of the spirit can only bear to be seen in the incarnadine rage of night, naked like a babe borne in the woods of summer’s dusk. A relentless and unmerciful God who speaks in the tongue of Love only spoken by a duet of thighs, or the dialect of a wayward kiss falling from the crest of a cupid’s bow, descending a mountain, and resurrecting itself out of the foam of the sea.

It walks like pain, and seduces like the prophet that it is. With its waistful of charms and chants, pulled from the secrets of your loins, and made sovereign by every prayer you have ever spoken under your breath; so afraid an angel might hear you wishing for the divine touch of matin on your chest that cries with unbridled joy. This is no mere coasting annoyance or desire; this did not simply fall into your lap, a cosmic blunder of the navel. This is the echo of all the collected little deaths, pulling up, gathering, and cascading upon your brow. It is the seldom heard crack of the sea; the zealous orgasms of seven maidens buried beneath the sand, clamoring for the soles of your feet as you sink into the eroding shore of your virility.

The crash of the final wave buckles your knees still weak with the innocence of adolescence, and you submit. Blissfully unaware of the hole still presiding as tyrant in your womb. Out crawls the grief of ecstasy that drags you back to the chasm.