Sweet Nothing

So he whispers sweet nothings

Sometimes he lays awake
Dreaming of another
To be intertwined in her bed
She will be  his love and his dread

See fatherhood, see fire in the works
See the shadow be born, and laugh as it comforts him
And see the brother's beating heart
See it beat with warm blood upon the firm cradle

See the motherhood, see the loveless duty
She still loves the morning light
And see her now obscene children, anarchy,  joy, and sadness
And wait until they see at last, and look intently as they cringe 

They will whisper: Is mother on a holiday?

With sloped shoulder and ugly grimace, they stand
The dower youth, lined up to still the devil's heart
But one stared into the void, and saw his little earth shrouded in mist
Now the demon's relent with lack of weaponry

Who is the devil, they asked, who becomes evil
He said; the dreamless angels of eternal heaven
And he meditated the dark and empty streets
They allowed his passing, with no cause to look

He,  now disparaged, in the sight of their ignorance
Makes love with divinity, to blot out their dim gaze
And he goes cold when their vision saps his flame
Becoming the lonesome son, the suzerain of a desolate tide

He simpers: Everyone passes

See him retreat into his past, digging for a reason
See him furrow his brow as he glares into his future
He retreats from his aches, and so too his daily prayer
Despite himself, he sees the brink, and so he despairs

Did not the pews of hell open, as the dark choir sung:
Joyous mockery, lonely heart beat bright and come back
Condemn thee to misery, mystery, and mastery 
Let the greatest rain rid your eyes of grace

So his heart yearns for company while the sun is gone
And his heart knows neglect and old age
He seeks to know the atrophy, and the fire he set ablaze
And on the horizon the stars begin to fade

She whispers sweet nothings

He meditates the night sky, sleep confounded
God gives him life against her will
No my son, you are now alone in your withdrawn dementia
And the knife is heard, for his end will be sharp

Deplorable monks chant in the clearing, low voices hum
The dark prophets speak clearly
And the devil's choir sings of a savage slaughter
Surely they should know when it comes

But he will wake up, when she says the name 
She will whisper of the early morning stars
And sing of dearly won courage, upon the freshly lit horizon
He is in love with that courageous pale light