There is darkness in me slithering
coiling into circly-shapes and shining
inky black and sapphires glinting
like the oiled mechanisms of war machines
eager and resplendent with chromed fangs that drip the venom of dissolution.
Among my insides is a lightness
not soft but bright with acceptance
and the glowing embers of love
that is ready to flash into flame
an inferno of protection-flowers
that welcomes the hurt of everyperson.
Hidden in the heart of the mountainous me
is fear like lemon-lightning blazing
the sunflowers of flight
there is not much to it now
what more can I be shown?
Crouched and wound like a spirit-spring
is the brutish wild thing of ambition
the killing thing; the cold predation of men
joyless as it poises on the lip of my spirit
watching mute and maudlin for blood-jewels
Lying languidly in the grass of imagination
is that prettiest of seraphs, a black-winged,
silver-haired seductress of the mind
Creativity, we name her; but she is goddess
over this place, this demesne of life.
Sitting on a low stool in the corner of strife
is the battered, crushknuckled brawling one
retired, put away, forlorn and forgotten
his days numbered from the first breath of
new spring, when steps counted overjoyed.
Swinging among these limbs of cognition
is the base and common one; called WANT
Spoken sharply always; driven by animus
to complete tasks high and low
his feeling lasts a tick and tock, and gone.
Standing armored like steel beetles
is the defender of the faithful and less
multitudes of gouged-in eyes searching
finding the gemstone-hearts of those
who require a defender of no reknown.
Crushing hope with her heart-hammer
is my mistress of propaganda
you cannot, must not, will not should not
do the thing that enlivens us
please, as she swings again, let us sleep.
These are the secret stars, the show-friends
with hands scrabbling for the tiller of ME
what star will be their guide? What argent
blazer seen through the sextant of want?
I am no solitudinous thing. I am Legion.
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