Breathe The Langour Of Dark's Light Poem by Michael Ó Domhnaill

Langour in dark's light smiling.
Flow to the deep black- cry in the stone.

Go forth into worlds, chill to bone,
fly out and back to fragrant sanctuary.

Is it worth your while? - the shaking
and moaning in rebellion; consider scarcity.

What keeps you alive is the warmth
of a caress to the core. You call it love?

Skeletal is the beast constructed.
Short and lacking in vital girth, he only mumbles.

The voice is dry, scraped thin, needing lube,
true it isn't- needs to force its way inside;

Inside to dark's light smiling,
fractured and abrasive, the without.

Caught in the dense devouring spotlight of eye,
the mouth obstructs unworthy victors.

Victims and the victors all deceit's servants,
dead in confusion's world, a rare breath need only revive.