D.C. Copeland
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Tell me the story of the beginning.
Such was the little love-god's plea one night;
While I dreamt and slept on a ground of hay.
I had left the party early in boredom,
Want of play. He wished for me to muse him,
And I rallied for the chance to speak out:
My best observations on mortal love,
Justice, romance. But when I opened my mouth
There issued forth such shrieking mangled cries,
Testifying with words I had never heard,
In a tone knowing neither death nor life;
Like a hissing snake sprung from fields of truths.
Hard to escape the utter ecstasy,
Night's feeling force sponsored by votaries.

Sappho's Dance

It ruined us and made us who we are.
This dance with Sappho; I was reminded -
Of a house on fire and you were there -
But you never put me out nor quenched me.
I pined for you waiting as if you'd come,
And rescue me from the vitality,
The very life living through all of me.
One wonders at such a time and ponders:
Do we respond to one another?
Are we responsible to the other?
The great book of accounts, the missing debts,
Where the heat rises and smoke falls,
There, where I am alone, Saphho's dark night:
She dances on; her meliorating light.

Winter Muse

Winter's breath makes cold our summer's ripe passion,
We, lost in our naked song of love,
Forgot to plant roots in Spring's living ground.
Alas, we acted parts not of ourselves.
Ours was a song pleasing to unholy things:
A tune with an unnatural melody,
Faded on autumn's wind. This is our youth:
Unaffecting, mute. We are not to last.
Despite the beauty in the dance, it ends.
What a spring it was when I found you here,
On earth with me, but it pleased not the gods.
I can only do what serves beauty the best.
It starts with a chord struck right in my chest.