bacchanale

She was the flinging of silhouettes

In his dismal midnight flight

Where he stared in strategic stupor

As if none of him knew such sight…

He was close to being tragic

At the touch of her glance

On his cheeks mark such yesterday

Which corrupted his mortal trance.

But he knew that atonement

Was the payment for one brush

Of her knee to his calloused fingers

On divine will he laid his trust

A taste of wavering woe

Between grief and misbegotten glee

Yet all he recognized was frenzy

His bestial state allowed him to see.

And so he gave in to the call,

Contested the last of his restraint

Only to find out that revelations

Knew too much of this saint.

She wore the veil of one paradise

Of an anonymous slight

Too late that he had passioned

For ardor professed in black light.

Currently feeling: restless