Poetry

Step 9 (69.)

Every coin has two sides,
every story, at least
two perspectives,
and this underground alternate dimension
balances shakily between pastoral and macabre.
Bioluminescent critters mingle with cave angels
and beneath every serene countenance,
the somnambulist seems to whisper,
sits a skull grinning and gnashing its teeth.
Worms turn in on each other, elastic
lemniscates of the lowest order,
exalted and raised on high by us repentant sinners
(who only pray in their sleep),
so even the lowliest most lonesome creatures
kneel and are blessed by love.
Gooey graves house every little death,
as moans echo through the mausoleums;
while the moon looks on, knowing,
happy shrieks penetrate the night’s open air.
This is the best side of the evening.
Bones shake and rattle in their beds
so by the end of each private performance,
the living and the little dead
are grinning ear to ear.
Ragged breaths, heaving chests,
bodies become treasure troves
of desire and affection.
La petite mort, c’est la vie.

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