paean

[constantine]

it is as if they are proud of their decadence,
content with the pallor of life, a spectrum
shrinking, fading with a gray whimper
darkness falls like a volume closing
just as our eyes with dust upon them

what of songs turned to anthems?
snatched from the air by hungry hands,
poised for what should be there
already... always...

the iron in our blood
runs true and thick with the passions
the ancient dreams and chaldean visions
of midnight in babylon,
with pleasures that sate
or deny with anguish