I believe it was that—
that cold night in December,
that flashed and burned Us.
That set off a canon of venomous smoke,
A perforating Spell,
A thin Atmosphere,
A puncture in the fabric of space-time.
And it was that moment,
So beautifully and perfectly
Wrapped in soft deer hide;
With some red, gold and green on a quilt
That infected Us in an instant--
Words, terrifying words just then--
Drifted through the air,
Chants from the album of “This Loved One”
Piercing and harsh and toxic;
Escaped from her lips just then.
And they splashed everywhere
In an ensnared mess,
upon my black canvas of a soul.
The Staircase Inside Rattled,
And it was as if a new level
Of Seismic Activity
Had Overthrown All the Playing Fields.
The ecstasy whistled away by Familiar Words,
Was now something
I had heard for the very first time.
But my pride had entirely vanished.
And all that was left,
Was some Sour, crippling despondency--
Still Looking for a Name.
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