Long before we met
history set its stamp upon us:
two separate children
laid to rest from two different worlds,
both our windows closed out of fear—
yet without our willing it
the mythology left us,
joining the night beyond the panes.
And whilst I slept deeply
from the luck of the begotten draw,
you wandered vacant spaces,
an abandoned innocence
finding only an ocean floor
bleached with moonlight
on the bed where you sought your mother
and found her gone.
Maybe we have struggled too hard
to assemble these broken shards
left by the heritage of men,
whose consolations hide in the skin of purity.
Take my hand and we’ll flee this world,
climb with me through the windows of our past
down into sightless perdition;
I’ll feed you the obolos
and carry you into fields of asphodel.
We’ll find a hillside
on which to die our little deaths,
twined side-by-side in lush constellations
without a word
to pass between us.
There shall you and I reside
until our very bones
displace the pain,
and the myth returns,
bearing the untouched gift of childhood.
(c) Seth Grube