This Homeless World

 

And all is dark 
as sadness sleeps 
in the mystery of love. 

Some, yearning for mastery 
over vainly vaunted chastity 
have gored their soul-less breasts 
with the claws of each forsaken woman 
who weeps in endless bookish nights, 
robbed of the fiery scars of love. 
Have you not heard that silent song 
that springs from such pillowed throats, 
a choked and chordless tune 
of a self abandoned, cast out and cold? 

Voiceless, we of the hooded hearts, 
the clitoral sheathed and hidden hearts, 
have reached behind the fleshly drapes of life. 
Our lethal eyes have struck the world, 
this homeless world, with writhing wounds 
that free new visions, bleeding for us 
from another sun, ringed in majesty but hidden 
in its mirrored brightness, a world 
of myriad paths that we, with mystics walk. 
Dreamers and fools.

Lunatics will share with seers. 

We follow stolen maps torn from the tangled hands 
of the caged and ring-nosed poet, dragged 
beyond endurance and cursed by the whipping tongue 
of the men of steel and stone. 
Shunned by the self same lovers for whom 
these routes are trod, and staggered 
by the weight of this wealth 
we are steadied by this spendthrift truth;
Not yet for all sleeps sadness 
in the mystery of love.

 

 

 

Mike McNamara
Illustration Nick Victor

 

 


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