would that you had not come
and undone several year's work
of painstakingly-wrought
chains and armor
forged of dark lessons
squeezed from the dregs
of nights beside you
silent, icy, lightning is growing
in fulminating clouds of despair and longing,
jabbed awake by pikes of a twisted, subhuman nature
striking, striking repeatedly
on the scales of this armor,
weakening, finally, breaking it
in the deafening silence
of solitary rooms
filled with you, only you
what malicious glee would do this,
thinking me sport for
destructive enjoyment impune?
what unthinking childishness
with obnoxious demanding, whining,
seemingly commanding voice,
with barely-clothed polity,
would try to clothe a dragon
with domesticated drudgery
with nary a thank you note?
woe to all below the darkened air of wingshadow
tremble at the roll of rumbled warning
and cower beneath what dismal roof
you can find, for i will strike,
oh i will strike
no fiery breathe to warn you,
no golden sparks to light your escape,
no magic cloak to protect you from coldest pain,
and no more armor to keep,
yea, no more chains to keep
this rage at bay.
hold your candles close
because i come
nay, not to lift a heavy hand
as you have so often claimed in times past,
gather your books together
because i come,
not to paint purple arms
as your self-portraits on flesh
are good enough,
pack your dusty little trinkets because i come,
not to stop holding house for you
as you have never done me,
You count my alleged injustices against me
as a miser gleefully hides each unearned coin
in a favorite piggybank
and paint me with vocal acid in broad strokes
of your vigorous tongue, or sketch me with
hidden letters to ones who would believe your plight
aah, i come
to shred your miasmic veils
of deluded righteousness
and self-pity unbound
armed with simple light of day
and your bags
packed neatly
and carefully
for you
outside the gate
of my green,
green house.
02: 26 7/23/2002
03: 45 7/25/2002
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem