A Portrait of a Man a Few Minutes Long, Twenty-Eight Years Wide

He’s a left-handed Taurus
     just like daddy was,
     warring with what the poets
     called, ‘incontinence
     of the spirit,’ that cancer
     at once a tumor
     on the heart of innocence
     and an important
     premonition of his talent;
     I find his prescience

     unifying, how he’s sure
     as an emperor
     our two foreign lands haven’t
     since their creation
     fallen to ruin or kissed
     reckless decadence—
     that I am his prince and heir,
     like him, heaven-sent;
     our mission shared: to repair
     each other’s trust.

On the edge of thirty, his
     poverty of what’s
     often termed, ‘soul’s performance,’
     only shows the loss
     society’s endured; their
     ignorance of our
     treaty’s various sanctions
     guarantees that his hand’s been
     forever given to mine;
     that we are husbands,

     love unending in its tour
     ’round the world made for
     us and for opposition—
     never were spoken
     such li(n)es and utterances
     as others sentence
     his name to; what is truer
     than two men dying,
     sacrificing themselves for
     defiant romance?