The array of anguish is the death of the known
That squeezes a spinal perspiration.
Some strange binding that bleeds the soul forever absent
And cuts the throat of respiration.
Fire and Ice--”the combination will suffice,” says the Sadist.
On that quenching summer’s feast,
Running barefoot through mud with Mother’s heavenly beasts....
When instinct brought our eyes to meet,
Your lips smiled forever and your cunning eyes did wink.
I saw you, my beautiful Pan...
And unknowing I took your tender hand.
But later I would hear your reed pipes no longer play far and wee....
For you betrayed me.
After that day when eternity was graciously paid,
I watched you before your box (of tricks I thought),
Curiously pick at the lock....
And on opening all the tragic elements of mankind,
I saw Pandora replace the Pan I thought to be mine.