Enamored of flesh, ensorceled, bound,
yet thinking ourselves as kings crowned
in brain matter, nerves, the flow of blood
wallowing like pigs in filth and mud.
Lo! So intoxicated by youth!
That fat flask of wine, its foolish proof
belying hangovers yet to come
while we age, and so, too, each kingdom
as it falls to ruin round the throne
mistaken as ageless and our own,
for Time lays the claim ever he held,
we but stewards for what we beheld.
And so we aspire beyond such waste
of the flesh-bound world as we are faced
with rot, with ruin, with the decline
inherent in our mortal design,
seeking stairways above fickle spheres,
unbound to flesh and untouched by years
futile reaching! Strapped down, on the back
like the condemned stretched upon the rack,
for it is the bed on which we dream
while watching stars afar, as they gleam,
seeking always the constellations
to console both men and their nations;
seeking myths to comfort fleeting meat
as it dies around us, beat by beat.
We are all Gnostic in such belief,
the temple of flesh fickle and brief.