Grace

 

It is true I rush into standing room only.
I see the crescent moon, I am not blind to the blinking stars.

I wear the purple shroud of dusk in the still winter night.
The steam rolls out of my lungs and into my crow black soul.

Let me go then to meet new destinies and carry onward the flame.
I will always let my heart go where my mind knows it should not.

If my sadomasochistic nature shows itself it is because I am made in his image.
I am tormented with ten thousand hells in being deprived of everlasting bliss.*

As long as the handcuffs stay on I cannot reach my fingers through the glass.
I window shop this love affair for the teletransportation experiment has failed.

I will walk home quietly as if the street corner orchestra has packed and gone.
Orange, pink,- Saturn rings reflect, like, tiny keys on a music box, aleatoric.

*Mephistopheles to Faust.

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