Ithaca

 
I've come to know your flesh from mine was ripped; 
my blood and bone are bare in frost-clawed night, 
my soul's a song that’s sung to silent crypt
if your two ears are not to hear its plight. 

Perhaps inside your chest there is a small 
and warm flesh hollow for me there to dwell. 
I hear its calling, beckons me to crawl
through marbled skin of yours, within to melt. 

A promised land? what promised land but you?
Curse Eden's name with spiteful slander: Lies.
Eternity's too long a hell and size
of atom's pain when woven 'tween us two. 

The hands of Time gave Ithaca your name. 
Like Persian priest in dawn of sacred rite, 
within your soul, allow me spark the flame
of burning smiles each day the sun might rise.