at the end of everything
rests the dewed sound
of the unnameable--

which cannot be uttered
without sacrifice
of grimy flesh that is still, soon
to rot,

which cannot be proclaimed
without a maddening flicker
of heaven--

that grasps you like
you've always longed to be grasped--
you, alone, in corners of cobwebs
and misery--wanting to be saved!

such drops collect in harbored hearts
filled in emptiness and contempt,
pumping blood that snatches air--

the gods
know our longing
and made it so--

they stare at us,
perplexed at our passion:
fueled by it,
afraid of it:

who is to tell such frail creature
of samsara and illusion and transience--
yes, we are told, yes, that the world will end--
and in our knowing

we run, tormented, as blameless children
in a butcher house

only to find dewed croons
that speak
not beyond
nor within
the end
but through
and such dewed sways
do not speak
and do not say
but lull us forward
anyway

junkies for holiness--
rushing to consort together
only to fall apart...
and the moments spoil us--
teaching us infinities secrets
and time's absurdity
and joys full embrace
and we are only out to kill us--
for life through death is hallowed entry
where curtailed whispers of immortal tithes
hum serene

do not deny heaven before you--
for it will go on without you.