The Broth of Melancholia
It was there—
In the depths of that ignoble cavern,
Known for harboring the crows in murder,
Hidden from society, within
A crevice
(The place where angels molt to skeletons),
Where I found—
Proud upon a blank, obsidian alter,
Underneath the most of faded lights
(For even Darkness would not call it bright),
A chalice, golden,
Brimming with a rank, obsidian water,
That did have—
Circling around its lustful body,
In a sanguine ink that hadn't dried
(Despite my sense it'd been there for a time),
The structured scribbles of a language foreign
(Unmistakably),
A poem,
Words of which did slither into English,
And reveal to me its message:
There are fruits that grow beneath The Garden,
Nurtured in the covenant of soil,
That the clean believe requires pardon
And the virtuous believe disloyal to enjoy.
Yet, if you did put to them the question:
Have thou ever had the fruit to savor?
You would find the oh, so righteous have no
Stomach for disfavor. This behavior—
To denounce what fear has kept from thee as vile—
Puts beyond the west horizon all our Greater
Days, for we're the one, the chosen child
With permission to a sunset later,
And yet, the cursed, with what unnatural ambition.
None the fruits to us below can be forbidden.