Moira Poem by Michael Ó Domhnaill

On to the next silver sliver:
Aggravated and molten hot wired, the center is prodded.
The probe manifests itself in a barely perceptible hum.
It is surgery most orthodox dear Moira…
Surgery most orthodox my dear blind Moira.
The skill is unfit, for my own hands are numb
from pounding my walls.
I slowly lose all my senses, though
I'll always sense when you're beside me.
Slide makes the sliver slowly seek
as it catches a flash of illumed daylight peak.
Fortune forsworn in a flinty soul torn, Worrying…
Collides with white soul in a gasp of treasoness birth.
Lull the lone lullabyer to the depths (His song is nonetheless sweet,
Sweet as your flesh, sweet Moira,
Sweet as your ascending blind eyes, dear Moira.)
Lone as your blind eyed vision- lofty enthroned, bitter teared Moira.
Lose murky speech; clarify your intention, muddled Moira.
Tell what is to tell me my Moira.
Seek out a sympathetic sore within me my Moira.
Catalyze a pestilence with a nonexistent tear.
Quell the self subsuming sob of mine, loving most malicious Moira.
Tell what is to tell me my Moira.
Skillfully spy the sacrilege of my unhowled holed up desire…
That desire undiluted, dour most unapproving Moira.
Across the tired unhorizoned expanse of your most obscure of all visions,
regard me unregretfully my Moira.
I stand Opaque...A mirage, uncertain, shivering, meek, Moira,
Gesturing to you blind Moira.
Scratching my unsunned most pallid throat my Moira,
With an icon, symbol of null untrusting void.
My blood red as the screaming death throes of the desert dried rose
O Moira.
My bleeding hollow husk is bled dry. I die before your blind eye..
oh enraptured, enslaved, unsigned, unquenchable, uncaring,
sadistic vacuous blind b...h-
Blind b...h: sucker of my mortal mass,
bonnie blind lass,
Lurid Moira.
I die with no tear left to cry,
My tears this desert did dry, seeking visions from your blind eye.
Goodbye.
No more.
Moira.