Suppliant Testimony

I simply do not know what I must do To prove to someone somewhere That I am worth their utmost adoration. Might I bow at Heaven’s gate each rising dawn, screaming Of my heartache in honor of the fallen Loves before me? Or an offering, Of cinnamon and oranges to the Sun, in the name of mighty Eros, set ablaze adrift a river? Would sullen prayers beneath my tongue quench this unholy fire? Erupting in my heart anon, such fury thither multiplied and suppliant, raw without tame. That I might open the door Aloft a morning to the balm of pink horizon spilling carelessly and without levy into my life, puddling around my feet, my only wish. How wrong is it, o’ Sweetest Desire, that I’d crave the honey of those bees That pollinated the flowers of Adam’s fruit? It must be a sin of unspeakable blasphemy without measure that I’d want For the nectar of a hummingbird that even once suckled the flowers of Eve’s demise, Or to feel the breeze of Eden once upon my face. Be it rare a tender caress? Hath that art been lost in some damned ravine Without hope of salvation? Much like I, fettered to infuriated ground surrounded by hell clouds, Where Love cannot dwell or walk or even overpass on uplifted resplendent wing. Not even a nymph, a child of Diana’s moonswept adventurous lust, dare enter into a forest Undulating with such black shadows. And as fauns faithfully follow nymphs; I hear no flute played to ease this shady solitude. Surely, o’ Lovely One, there is a devil amuck your kingdom; For was Love not once Given so freely, with much serendipity and charity? Without quest’, o’ Almighty Heart, a poison hath grazed your precious tongue, from which nothing but poetry springs forth, The plot of some disloyal servant, whilst you slumbered fair one night. So unlike you it is, to ignore a singing heart so long. You shame your mother’s incarnadine legacy, and send her milky foam wayward With this hypnotized tyranny of neglect. Once was a time when a heart in servitude to thee oft received, and was not kept in shackles. Even now, burdening this weight of a thousand, no Love would come as rescue. The same mirages appear and dissipate; the same falsified icons are built and torn down, And the very same apple of my eye rots in front of me Under the heat of another who first claimed its red luster as her possession. The remaining dismay is that if the whirlwind ceases and her winds no longer blow, Even in the air so calmed, would a Love find me? If not, May an arrow be pulled back with all His fervor, And strike me down before the Sun sets on this day.