Heartsick melody promises
     not to tell of its angry wound,
     agony a sound we welcome
     when it is not ours to own—sent
     heavenward, the weight of our prayers
     bends us down, a profound bow how
     we just miss Death’s kiss, as on low
     ground we taste of mist sent to be
     villainous, to serve its master
     to whom it is bound, since Nature
     always collects on its favours,
     human especially; forgets
     no one whose generosity
     honours those immutable laws
     of this Universe across which
     we crawl, so to Nature we call,
     its mythopœia a silk song
     spun from mortal slumber, waking
     a pantheon of foot-tapping
     simulacrum gods singing of
     sister and brother making them
     in their own image, world-soul

fully and always a part of
     a chorus we forget we wrote
     when we offer to them total
     control, language a thread people
     need to hold in higher regard
     before pulling apart the scroll
     Nature blessed us all to behold:
     twin strands licking a finger dipped
     in Creation’s fresh oasis,
     a code inked in crimson and sealed
     with sin so original, that
     when we touch, our flesh manifests
     a caduceus spine we climb
     when we sing of losing our Selves,
     remembering our very first
     time, Love’s own sound a flood of thirst
     filling us up with sand and blood,
     reminding us of what we lost
     and what we kept when we became
     Lust’s prisoners instead of its
     gods, living for pleasure and not
     our soul’s true purpose: to be heard.