United States of Ecstasy
by A.M. Jr., My Soul Mate

Two desperate lovers firmly entwined, 

dance like a beating heart.

Perfect rhythm about to ignite 

in a brainstorm of love and unknown art.

Upon an altar white they writhe, 

shameless monks in chant abound.

From stained glass on high, 

a shadowed snake is bound.

In seeps a holy light 

and weaves them in a prism of fire,

A cocoon of impossible colors 

even silences the choir.

A star screams in orgasm 

as a new form reworks shape.

Like mad sculptress’s refining hot clay 

eager for escape.

Their souls ignite, each blessed sinew 

like spun glass aglow

From the rampage of her charge 

to the victory athwart his foe

In a glorious enrapture, 

a congregation once hostile now sings.

For from right out of their backs 

have unfurled colossal wings.

With but a shrug of their shoulders 

this new feature freed

Great angelic dominion, 

Just rule from majestic deed

Some say that a vision 

is no more than a dream.

Some give it moments’ ponder, 

others it reigns supreme.

Could not a being of such fixed passions 

be a muse for worlds come?

And not even the wisest may say of us 

what wild intimacies may be undone.

 trust now winds and wings 

of which I thought wayward and forbidden.

As your feet too touch down only 

to vault sky bound unhidden.

Each day you pluck chance lessons 

from the strands of your fraying weave

To stitch within my soul 

a tapestry the looks of which I can’t conceive.

We balk at The Bond and the elbowroom 

in what must be but a larger cage,

For such as we make poor fettered beasts, 

and find our ill at ease a shrunken rage.

Three simple words get tangled, 

in our tongues in constant tide.

Of this I name no judge, 

for too I soonly quick deride.

Are we then but pawns 

to some trick of the mind?

Of this I think most likely, 

charmed slaves in chains kind.

I wonder of the owner to the words, 

which we stall.

I can number the reasons 

I can argue them all.

Know then only this, 

that we ride each other bareback 

without reign.

We’ll rush headlong through barbwire 

and bind all wounds of pain.

Yes, a divine play of light and shadow 

wrestles too in your soul,

A rare and sleeping beauty 

you are frantic to just show.

Yet in and by our reflections exposed, 

we eclipse with brighter hues.

For in the mirror the roots seem firm, 

we affirm to what we choose.

The image isn’t perfect 

as the glass has cracks and flaws,

But for soul carvers suchlike us, 

mere renderings to which the eye draws.

For a crack appears like lightening 

in a sky of silver-white,

And the flaws are simply smudges 

where we forget to polish right.