Gods: that is what we called
ourselves as we turned on the
bipolar symphonies on the radio.
We began with our chests sewn
to rhyme the rhapsodies
of our now sheltered hearts.
With our fingers fitted,
we painted lifeless skies
with hues beyond allure.
And with the tips of our toes,
we wrote sonnets and rondeaux
across the shimmering floor.
Loud praises from worshipers
are blurred by radiant glimmers
prancing off your scarlet-covered flesh.
We are now fragments of transcendence
wrought into an emblem of unified souls.
WE. ARE. GODS!
Or, at least, we WERE.
Music fades and curtains close;
the dance is over.
We turned to the crowd;
with their applause held back in awe
and their drenched eyes
And there in that tick of our dying clock
we knew: our love will soar the books a myth
and we… We are gods no more.