The poem is written on an abandoned piece of parchment, the edges torn from some notebook old enough that the pages have been yellowed by time. The ink, however, is fresh, as are the circular spaces of darkness on the lines where teardrops have fallen. You can see that the handwriting is done in shaky calligraphy, the content disjointed and at times hard to comprehend. The air bears the pain of the Seeker’s discarded.
"’This English Thames is holier far than Rome,’
Said one past lover of lovers passed
Past lover’s life led from silk to sludge
Past lover’s life in passed lover’s passing life
To find poor Wilde in mirrored strife
The expedition for diamond under pyrite
Finds coffin-nails under the storm’s passing light
Sit there and weep openly for late Herod
No surprise that the skeleton’s eyes are arid
No Christ found in our lurid worship,
But holier suns than Bishop’s light
Found in the eyes of velvet night
That man of women such as I
Whispers his name, “Narcissus” in virgin ears
Honey-scented eyes
To dash lessons of a mentor’s years
Love’s name is Iokanaan to Salome,
Though lover’s name is lurid
Courting’s conquest is Icarus’ sun
Though the sun is angels’ foe
O, Faust!
Thine gone eyes sparkle still,
Though twas only your smile that ever shone
Tis now your gaze in next winter’s saudade
Laugh, o colored brightly cobblestone
Live, o perfumed and pampered rags
Dance, o bejewelled bones of Herod
Thine cruelty is strongly missed
Stay your eyes, my dear Lazarus
For I fear you may never awake
Look blankly upon me once more
That I may imagine love in thine black eye’s core."
edited by Professor Sketch on 9/5/2016