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…

 

We are born.

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