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the last mystery of my senses

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So sacrilegious your presence/ among the simple pews and hanging cross, / not the gothic hordes- but you/ again grace my sight unseen/ a skipped beat/ and again your shadow darkens the glass and I stand/ frozen/ inside on holy ground/ dressed in pagan green/ and watch the swish of your dark coat./
Adolescent passion/ laced with ghosts/ reviving Ophelia/ whose madness drains away like blood/ one word at a time/ putting away my childish things and finding petty jealousies to take their place/ slowly/ so slowly/ I melt and burn away to ash/ and rises my Idol of Mnemosyne/ whose hands anoint my eyes.
I can no longer profane my hands, / which/ unable to touch you for losing all sense/ bids me win (love) you slowly/

I rejoice to meet your eyes/ that have not dimmed for me/ I will keep your words safely/ tied with ribbons, faded with youth/
Maturity in B Minor from your skilled fingers and mine/ now more sure/ casting delight from our dulcet tones/ casting poor melodies from the shattered bust of Janus

The inward eye/ blind in solitude/ opens to the sunrise/ brilliant in the perfumed skies.