Cracked Clay

Our house is Hades, where the dead wade in;

We sit for stale communion, sour with doubt;

Drink hollow wine, a vinegar of sin;

And let love's rigor mortis ride us out.

No living tissue to light the candle;

And death drapes the parlor in olive wax,

Smiting the last ember on the mantle

Of faulted stars, where love leaves broken pacts.

The Tarot speaks: the River Styx must call

Our cracked-clay to break upon her shore;

We should not fear dark depths or fret the fall,

To be formed anew better than before.

    True love's light can quicken the blackest night;

    We choose, or drown within familiar blight.