empath eyes

Elemental passion’s lost to all but scars
bearing trade-mark, branded with
the ragged nature of thin pretty things,
dressed to please and entertain
illusion’s rebound in a threefold choir.

Mild stars hearing secret thoughts suggest
that pain’s not wise-guide after all,
but servant loyal to last cause.
How could it know what’s to be done?

Cradle new-born lies instead - fool self.
And love, ah love - any kind might do,
esteem it missionary, just another
cosmic service wasting time of breath.

Weigh tears in prayer, goad errant gods,
you’ll miss the point, they’ll fail to save.


*image: Evelyn De Morgan