Ah, that bitterest of moments, when you realize all the deepest secrets shared no longer matter. To Her for Whom This Would Once Have Held Great Meaning.


You knew death from your mother
Before you knew life from her;
Yes, I remember that.

Red she is, and white.
And clad in black,
She is yet beautiful.

You no longer wear
Your necklace of skulls,
But it is there, nonetheless.

Ah, Kali! Is it not enough that I,
Yama of the red scimitar,
May never forgive you, nor be forgiven,
And yet,
Will never deny you?

We sit then, in our bodies
Of this day,
Our thoughts reaching
Across this gulf we made.
And know we death and love,
Promise, denial, and
What we misinterpret as betrayal.

Yes, I remember that.

Shiva and Agni themselves may weep
What tears of destruction and fire they have.
But Kali cares not,
For she devours herself too,
And calls it her nature.

Perhaps it is so.

But a part of me waits here,
At the Pavilion at world’s end,
Beyond the celestial city,
In the room named Despair.
And even this has no effect upon me,
For it is not in my nature.

Death and Truth forever circle one another,
And between them there is all of life,
For neither one is ever fully attained.
I wonder if you remember that.

I wonder if you remember.


September 2010, Los Angeles

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