She battles him
when war is done,
and whether win or lose,
when her blood is high and hot,
she climbs
the mountains of his thighs,
heedless of wounds,
heedless of weapons,
And pulls him to
new heights of
painful ecstasy.
Lustful as any warrior
he’s ever faced,
and more deadly
for the love she bears,
his flesh is claimed
as a trophy of
love’s war,
empty of seed,
but not of life.
Unheard, or unanswered?
Does it matter now?
Their prayers lifted high in tender faith,
were shattered by the godfist in derisive mockery.
The eyes close,
the grip weakens,
the sight fades,
and the breath grows shallow,
and they are free.
But the gods are not where they’re going
And the river is black and cold
They can have no vessel of silver
They’ll receive no provision of gold
And stone by stone,
the ghosts tear the walls
apart,
For they are a part
of nothing,
having become
everything.
Standing among the ruins,
they mourn their dreams,
and in the gathering light of dawn,
they dissipate once more
And the whispered susurration
of fervid entreaty once more
forms the misty morning veil
around the broken walls
where prayers go to
die.
Beyond Panic 