Death of Elysium

Folder: 
Sorrow

I remember the moment
I stopped loving you.

 

All the lights went on in
a kingdom that
had died
over
and over

like August nights
with all their
squealing air and
tarred streets and
fireflies,

sometimes a heart full
of diamonds,
but too often chains
without a heart.

 

The shadows that choked
in the vacuum of
wanting you,
worn like ragged
platitudes
belted out from
the pulpits of
our youth

burst into mandalas
with so much
understanding,
such beautiful mazes
of Truth.

 

Still, how real
the other you
looked
when it cartwheeled,
star-drunk,
in your eyes,

 

how I could have believed
the Universe,
unredeemed and
well-versed
in the magical arts,
spilled its Pagan soul,
no, a multitude of
cut-glass dreams
into those eyes,

 

and what gospel is this
I heard them rumble?

 

How their sweet
and poisonous
scriptures rewrote
everything I ever believed
about what was
possible.

 

How I was drenched in
everything about you.

 

I suppose I imagined,
too soon,
you led to Heaven.

 

I suppose I imagined,
too soon,
you were for real.

 

Patricia Joan Jones

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