Poem – “God is Old” – Romanticism – 11/26/2020

Belonging is the house
Of unrequited belief,
Where flies are swatted
From lips, so pallid,
Beneath the storm, weaved by
Their leper hands.
I saw how they pierced the air
With their fingers,
Just as the curtain before
The blinded bride.

I saw the space between them,
As they drunk in the firelight
Of enemies so old in the night.
Belonging in the house,
To worship something of dust
Lingering on the books of tragedy,

Among unremittent success.

I saw their gatherings,
Fewest, with frailest voices.
A blind man was with perception,
Yet muted to the deaf.

Romantic pairings
Drew kisses from the orchards
Where apples fell.

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