Hangman

How God, to re-open that door I believed I had sealed

All those many years ago when the tender snare beguiled me

And I believed that there was room for me to breathe within its ropes?

There upon the scaffold I have stood for two decades

And have lost count of the times in their multitude

When Eros, arrayed in the finery of a hangman, measured my neck

For "the perfect fit": the perfect one, the Beloved that I no longer believe in,

That I no longer believe is to be a part of my life.

Adam would lend credence when I say that the Fruit of Knowledge

Is a bitter fruit indeed, and hard to swallow,

Hard to stand here upon the stool with my hands bound behind me,

Forced even to eat the rancid core, and I realize

What wasted knowledge all of this has been, and if

I could erase these last twenty years I would do so gladly,

Spitting seeds from my mouth in disgust, admitting my heresy,

Given over at last to a new God which is not man,

Which is not passion, which suffers neither lust nor regret

But brings peace, a pardon, a reprieve;

And gently, so gently, Michael, Gabriel, Uriel, and Rafael

Surrounding me with their comfort, and leading me away

From the rope.