Putrid Cupid, plague bearer of love
strides forth, flaking flesh falling
from lank limbs, weapon poised.
Love is a wicked emotion. Disease.
Martyrs born of a dead heart, blending
living and dying, illuminating
shattered remains with prismatic appeal.
Ice will keep you sane,
blanketing warmth with numbing appeal,
reflecting life with a favorable chill.
Warmth consumes, striding into a room
with celestial light, immerse in the pleasure
and dive into darkness (into the Nether
we wallow) and find love, and poison.
And when we are tainted, mired in helpless euphoria,
our friends will make merry at our state
and balk at our wretchedness and say Fools,
Fools, you're done now, and done we were.
Enthralled, nothing can touch you,
so we're told, much too much, and we feel fear.
No pillars support this love, no stone
to brace the structure as it crumbles. Disease.
One cannot build without substance, as we well know.
Piled broken twigs perhaps, where rats build homes,
and insects plant larvae as rodent prey.
No more than this, no blocks with which to build,
only dirt and sand but no water. And we thirst.
Dirt and sand, never water, and always we thirst.
I will bring you water she said, from a spring.
But no stone, nor even cinder blocks, only water.
Fools, you're done now, and done we were.
A castle without foundation, only water. Salt.
Aphrodite offers bitter brine to quench thirst
and cradles deceit maternally, tenderly, cleverly.
Lady Chimera offered, and we drank greedily.
Fools, you're done now, and done we were.
Enthralled, one never knows quicksand treachery;
there is only love, assassin though it be.
Peer into the heart of blinding shadow
Death will offer these clues, late.
Wretched creature, spawn of Olympus!
Be gone with your wicked ways! he cries.
Fool, you're done now, and done he was.
Pierced through with blackened shaft. Disease.
(Along came the spider, and he sat down beside her).
Doom! Doom! Celestial light, the doom of men:
and the demon laughs and laughs again
and offers him bitter brine to cure his thirst.
But not stone, never the stone, only water. Salt.
The minimal task for a minimal mind,
a task at hand for his lady divine
he builds his structure of twigs and dead rats.
Dirt and sand, never stone, and always he thirsts.
Fool, you're done now, and done he was.
Wretched disease
masking truth within its hallowed halls
without pillars or stone, only salt, always salt
and twigs, and dirt, and sand, and rats with insect prey
and the minimal task for a minimal mind
a task at hand for a lady divine—Disease.
He builds his structure of twigs and dead rats.
Fool, you're done now, and done he was.
Yet we beg of love to blight us all, only
lead us to quarry. Stone, life needs foundation.
And lumber, and all things strong, shore the marble
walls. Clear the halls of rats and dirt, deceit and lies.
Cast aside the twigs and salt; oh yes, the salt!
Recast arches, parapets, and sweeping balconies
and together build a fortress divine.
And when we are tainted, mired in mutual euphoria,
our friends, they will make merry at our state
and marvel at our accomplishment and say, Friends!
Friends, you're happy now, and happy we will be.
Keith E. Sparks Jr.
Copyright © 2004, 2019
Written in 2004 as part of a larger work that was later broken into smaller poems
and published in "Facets" 2019
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