David Castleman
Love is the martyrs' beautiful hallucination.
Yesterdusk your soul was truer
than psyche's gods who earthward peer:
ah, moon-shadowed dreams were newer
and early hearts beguiled each fear.
Those yesterdusk dreams wouldn't fail
until the bridge of heavens cracked:
ah, silly as a lover's tale,
we hoped the saints held ours intact.
Toward this crucible dawns led us
and fed with death those hopes we'd fanned:
our mad cosmic butcher fed us
angels' milk, with one poisoned hand.
Is the psyche proud in its cloak of mud?
Hammered through the mines of soul, the living
artist created himself in this form
selected during spiritual storm,
body and mind for dying and thriving.
Emulating DEITY, the artist
emerged through his own canvas, and his brush
portrays himself, just. Holy was the hush
surrounded the selecting like a mist.
Emulating DEITY, stony will
probed among immortal corridors
patterns of character. One holy force
guided our human touch and guides it still.
Our earth is trod holy by living feet
and by the sea's echo in the heart's beat.
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