Love and Words


Requiem for a God


Loving you 

has made me

an enemy of the state.

They would hunt us both

if any thought

you still among the living.

but they consider you a dream

and me,

some dangerous fool

to be locked away

and slowly destroyed.

Sometimes to cause death,

life need not be removed.

They should be hunting us both, 

but you

have abandoned me.

Left me as easily as one leaves

a newspaper on a seat.

A lover left staring into

an empty space

which was once complete.

It is not grief I feel,

or longing,

or wishes for history - 

but a slow age that spreads through me 

and weights my bones.

Loving you has revealed

the depths of me.

The language of my homeland

has always been silence.

In silence we greet the day.

In silence we eat.

In silence we work and play and age

and in death,

it is silence we meet.

Here in this strange world 

you have brought me too,

all is noise,

song and words, 


lacks the voice to be heard.

The priests and monks

sorcerers and sayers

pretend to value silence,

but the silence they teach

is an absence of life

and not of eternity.

To them, silence

consists of nothing, 

the rivers of thought

and streams of belief

that flow through their silence

are dry and choked


to teach their history

to age upon age

with no need of books

or learning.

The silence of eternity

wraps itself around the soul

and bleeds through the skin

leaving on each layer

a film of words,

a language too thick to be strained

and weakened.

And the soul, 

as it grows,

and time draws it forward,

reads these words 

like pages from a book

found free

and blowing unbound.


In your wooing,

sentences you left incomplete.

I filled in the gaps

with words stolen from old dreams,

and never once 

did you correct me.

You let me build chapels

and castles

in the deepness

of our space between.

You let me puppet gods and statues

idols and dances

to the love and life

that you seemed.

And all along

did you laugh at me?

Anticipating the end,

when all would come crashing down,

and dreams would send

me running from their falling demands.


Too late!

Too late!

To take back the last moment,

the one where you looked at me

and with smiling kiss

destroyed the fantasy

that let me believe

and still remain in the nest

of this world that surrounds me.

You destroyed 

my capacity

to believe in blind eyes that see

and say the sun is dark

and dark is light

voices that strain

to drown out the sound

of the thunder of pulse

that answers the beat from the ground

for without my castles

and chapels to shape and control

all you were trying to give to me,

I am left

joined left vein

to right artery

infused with new blood,

with no place in a world

where blood not beats but pools

and pulses are shushed.

The absence of life

haunts these cities.

The night is filled with the 

dreaming cries

from a populace that sleeping

cannot forget

there once was more.


Artery drained,

my body reordered,

what was right now left,

what was mine now ours,

you smiled just once

and fell to the ground - 

a god no more

a mortal undone.


Here I stand,

your pulse within me,

your excrement upon me,

and I can make no move

to clean my skin

of the only thing I knew true - 

all else false

I see,

now begins.

Was that the sun you imagined

would shine and warm

my life?

That in dying you reveal

you were never anywhere

but within me?

That all our conversations,

our slow hot movements,

skin against skin,

were naught but dreams

left side talking to right

daring to reveal

hidden things?


You tricked me into believing you,

and in trickery

you have made me see

how easy it is

to fill a plate

with deceit

and yet

deceit it was

but a deceit well needed

for without I would

wander fogged alleys still

in a perception of wonder,

thinking what was mine

was yours

and I not worthy

to clean your feet.


I am preparing ointment,


and oil,

just as I am supposed to.

I am alone, 

so no one cares

that I break jars by

hurling them to stone.

You are dead,

what do a few cuts

from pottery mean?

As I rub the perfume

into your graying skin,

I wonder, 


is this the way

you would have me

take my leave?

Painting you 

like some doll,

a child's broken plaything.


decagon          poetry



c.2011 Cassandra TribeAll Rights Reserved