We lie atop the dusty outcrop jutting from the wall of blasted stone and dirt
Like a malformed phallus, razor-tipped edges crusted with the earnest release
Of those whose flesh has long since gone the way of ash and dust.
The gods have chosen us, stolen us from among the rest
To take part in this cosmic coupling, this Dionysian debauchery
Designed to echo the divine folly.
Arms and legs entangled, the sweat from our naked bodies mixes with the dust of the earth
To form parenthetical patterns, syncopating rhythms that will eventually
Rend both meat and marrow, blood and bone.
We exhale as one and breathe the final breath of a thousand dying souls,
Forsaking forgiveness, denying ourselves a redemption that would never come.
Our coupling reaches frenzied heights and we are torn, skin and bones ripped and rent,
Strewn as fodder into the succulent soil, an incorrupt yet decomposing composite of
Sin and life and death.
The gods sigh from on high, a preternatural, pregnant pause as
Countless blackened hearts rise through the darkened earth to
Feast on the flesh of their progenitors and we…
We are born.