Our Love Is As Strong As Death
Words of love so often stale and die
with the lips of those that utter them,
And go to the wormy realm of
the bone and the root and the gem.
And yet I do not dread the sidereal
silence of the tomb,
When, like the stalwart evergreen,
the legend of our love will bloom.
For we will prosper in my art,
as the rose that lives and breathes,
And tread the gleaming aisles of glory,
but not as kings festooned in wreaths,
Nor as Byzantine manikins,
from walls of tessellated gold,
Nor simulacra, cast in bronze,
each from the same heroic mould.
But as creatures of light and shade,
with just a spark of the divine,
Where, mulled by bellies full of fire,
our blood flowed rich and warm as wine.