Affectionate exodus, this
unmentionable dejection
advantaging itself of us,
defiling expectations with
an unsolicited glimpse, an
apocryphal apocalypse
still untranslated, yet fatal

                    unread, silent warnings and dead
languages managing somehow
to accomplish exiling eyes
unaccustomed to some ancient
malcontent’s firebrand of second-
sight prophesying our demise,
scholarship the last thing on my

                    mind as we untie what love binds
and avert glances, at one time
deriving such comfort from loss,
from dusting off their covers and
deciphering what time would hide
under brimstone’s remnant sands, tomes
no one else other than our Selves

                    believed existed, in our palms
holding truths we couldn’t in our
hands, what we needed then, we need
now, just as much, if not more, crowns
of horns no use no matter how
loud when they’re not blown, triumphant
angels fall as we scorn their words,

                    prophets in their tombs writhe and turn
intuiting and divining
with imminent disappointment
and eventual disgust what
too soon escaped our view, that lust
for knowledge more sensual than
can or should be perceived moves through

                    seas of tears reddened by sunrise
weeping in the east, veins of night
split by lightning pulse understood
only when plight throws down enough
troubling sparks that we can’t stand up,
this libido sciendi what
makes initiates of the heart’s

                    miseries we who pursue art’s
infinite mysteries, instead
of appreciating fully
its incomprehensible depth’s
beauty, calmly contemplating
without recourse to scrutiny
how hurt’s only a wound’s gateway.