Artificial Thunder

There is nothing in the stars

That does not pass

From your exhalation into

My penitent lungs.

Unrecognized but for ink

I grow into the sheath

Of my incautious fears.

A weapon immobilized,

In a fount of slaughter.

Pain comes at the expense

Of life and in the exaltation.

These residuals, these eidolons

Cast into the borders

I haunt among them,

Manacles writhing like

Artificial thunder.

I roll myself out

My delirium, my flesh

Assuming your willing indenture.

If only I could forgive myself

As you have done.

Whatever the conditionals

My heart still gallops

Through the fire

Of our suspended rage.

Reconciliations that

May not hold but into which

We invest everything.