By what vain apathy
has my tongue dried itself of words
leaving ever naked
this fever
     that binds men to beauty misunderstood
There is nothing sacrilegious,
          no question,
          in the beauty of you
A beauty that is all the more textured by memory
Yet on this night there is no passion
     towards the dreams of you that spell my aesthetics
You, as much Heaven as, you are, Hell
Virtues needing to be redefined by so simple a blessing as your glance
The oils of your flesh medicinal
     upon the tongue of he who is exhausted for you
The eleemonsynary gift of your persona
     that, unlike the dream, does not fade come morning light
Each fragment of you can last a lifetime
     like the wines of honor in every old tradition
And in this, the moment of my frustration,
the realization that
     the whole of me is but part of you
     and the all of you must be a religion by anyone's measure
Oh, by euphony profound,
for me to pen the words again with those passions
     that dedicate my perceptions
For you are my last desire
Come dawn, my first confession

Between composure and words
I am lost to my own emptiness
So I pray
there may be a path for quotation in her silent orchard
If need be
     let this be the last bastion on my verse
Poem!
Worship her!
In the loudest voice
                     of a whisper




                                     -Dylan Wahl
                                          copyright 1998

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