It is my role – I chose it.
I chose first touch, first taste,
first stolen penetration.
It is my curse, my joy, my fate –
I am surrendered to it.
I hear the call, I am the messenger
I see them, naked, innocent, unguarded
I am the Prince of Thieves – how can I resist?
I take them, seduce them,
taste their first kiss, again and again,
the first bliss of touch to soft,
hard, wet, hot, grind & release,
strain deeply against their souls –
first taste and then deliver them,
the god-loves – those that survive me.
The gods shun me – I have known each of their toys.
The chosen despise me – who they once loved so fervently,
base and bare – as if I were Pan – as if my pipes sprang
from my Wood, My Keep – but that is not who I am.
I am The One Who Fools Gods, I am The One Who Sings
New Songs, Makes Old Into New – I am The One Who Travels
All Roads – and carries foolish declarations of love when
performance was called for instead – so, I Was There Instead.
Although I know I repeat myself over and over and over again
I do not repent – as I cannot repeat myself.
They hate me because they gave me
their first love and I betrayed them.
Testing if they were worthy to
pass on—to lose, to gain—to regain—
story told again and again and again;
they resent me, I took them to the divine
and all they believe is I rejected them—
when I only came to push them through
the door. I am not to blame. And yet
once again, the messenger bears the shame.
Even in a crowd, you catch my eye,
as arm in arm you walk on by
with your lord or lady, with whom you abide.
Your cold glance does not remain,
but in the air there resonates
complaint, no longer compliant, as once you cried.
My eyes glance but do not remain,
I do not need to see your disdain,
when next you glance, seek others who are less constrained.
I took you from the mortal plane – you will never
see me in my final role, guiding you to the Boatman
who ferries all in Time across that black River. I will
never hear your voice plead with me, beg me, offer me
everything, anything, if I will not take you – only then,
once again, despite your muffled cries, I will fold you
in my embrace, one last time, and take once again,
your innocent kiss.
From this, you will remain, ever proofed,
ever denied, this final passion, culmination, the truth –
and will march, instead, in charade,
refrained within the eternal parade.
Peterborough Poets 