I am 

Riddled with holes. 

A pock-marked Pluto, 

Graceful as the moon. 

Placating me

Is no great thing. 

I am silent 

And motionless. 

Radiant 

beyond compare. 

Easing me down

is simple enough to do. 

I watch you

From the little folly 

of my whims. 

You are beautiful too. 

Wrapped 

In maudlin and 

Cancerous fumes. 

I drink you in. 

I have

Thirst beyond

Imagining. I'm

A muse with no compare.  

In silence

And in specter

We hold unmovable

bonds. We shift

Ever closer

To our entombment. 

We are rapturous

In our descent. 

Can you 

See me there? 

Among the linen

and the lace? 

I'm singing. 

A siren's song for

The sailor's fall. 

My voice breaking 

Like rocks

Upon the embankment. 

I could fall

A thousand times inside you

And never know enough to make it real. 

Our time is short

in the embrace of Magna Mater. 

Innocence is eclipsed 

and vestige fades to crumbling ash. 

We are dissolved

By the sins of our fathers before us. 

Tumbling down, 

Oblivion's mouth a gaping maw below. 

There are not 

Words enough to describe the rapture. 

And so 

The seraphim rest in dismay. 

Our fingers 

Trace the outline of the throbbing bomb.

Even hell

Could not escape this reckless embrace. 

God is dead 

And all our dreams drowned with him. 

Tears running cold. 

Only the silent cry out for the souls of the dead. 

If we could 

Would we mourn them on the eve of destruction?

Or is the past 

Nothing more than an illusion of forgotten nightmares?

We breathe deeply, 

And pass on to a brighter tomorrow. 

Our hands 

Dissolve into the nuclear fallout. Running. Melting. 

Our bellies

Are full with this new and bitter defeat. 

And everywhere explosions of light and passion.