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my drumbeat startles the beast, bursts the dark veins of hands forking out into your champagne world twining lust with lightning time makes no excuse for a killer – I of the human persuasion, you at home on the battlefield – we're both at war in our hearts caught on the shuttered evening my Parisian laugh, your voice across the water melding like a bridge to sanity, a leap we cannot make (St. Julien le Pauvre holds your place, undying, in aisles of the dead) please tell me that your kind are like immortal lanterns flickering hope along the waterfront, not some ancient trash adrift in time... (for regardless of this momentary fools' truce, heads will roll) your lightning sears my soul caresses my thighs engraves the shimmering sword from naked guard to naked point with tenderness yet, whatever magic we and the river weave in our short night, the beast will take it back – I don't know why © 2000 by Beth Stevens |