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"Abaddon"
a poem by Jonas Peterson
I’ve walked to you from unimaginable lands
of depth and depositions of madness, clay and mud in my hands,
rhythm upon concrete shapes, pounding skulls to chasms dark.
I walked away from terrible monarchs casting sleep upon the awakened.
I walked away from alabaster flesh, ebon eyes and deep red breasts,
the transgression is in the stealer, and that demoness stole
three eggs from my nest. Mind, body and soul.
Don’t look so wonder struck, my very old accomplice.
Have we not all passed a season in private torment?
Between sorrow and elation, each a leg of truth,
ejaculations of our individuality, blossoming of sooth;
I tore of piece of evil off and handed it to you,
but no, you wouldn’t take it. Know, that I came to you again
in perfect youth for this expressed purpose, to educate you
of abyss and of doubt. For youth won’t hide it from us.
Love of hate or love without, a fate of golden kisses.
They are blisters in my former land, abrasions of the skin.
I talk of hell like a gothic theme park, strewn with hungry gargoyles,
but in fact, I fell in love in secrecy, and it brought me much satisfaction.
While I walked a sundered strath with a sack of swords upon my shoulder,
I felt a sense of pride for my deception. I owned a certain solis,
with her eyes too dark to sense it. I was allowed to harbor delusions,
eat imaginary lobster off of Her stomach, pull glistening diamonds
out of coal crevices. My wonder was personal, my hands arching
around
limbs of air. I would lie in black absolution and feel Her against
the nothingness.
Amidst all this newfound freedom, that is something I still crave.
Let us take a patio night together, my friend
and talk in liquid gushes. Let us observe the change around us,
lovers dancing on the walk, dogs that rush around us.
Let us clasp hands in rejoice, for united here we stand.
I’ve walked a many hungry miles to be with you again.
Take leave of your woman and burn her name in a tabletop,
don’t promise to be artful. Maybe paint sex on newfound skin,
we are akin, again in the rapture of sin. Let us drink a drop,
my friend,
and start it all again.
In all her gates, Abaddon rues Thy bold attempt.
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