Late Poem by Paul Wilson

Late, and he does not come.
Even though it is dark he has not
Come. Through the darkness of dreamwhisperings
I am waiting here, for him, masked erlking
To rend me limb from sacred limb
As though to prepare me for the
Darkness dreamt of the tomb and that
Is why he does not come.
Now my blood is broken, I have
Sung my hymn to him
Now my darkness has enclosed me round again
In a secret womb; alive, as though
Now his dark saint I feel throe
His naked heart departed from my salt-sultry woe.