None That Resemble Mine Poem by Robert Rorabeck

How beautiful Satan is, and how perfect
A social crux:
There he is standing before us, my auburn love,
Spinning and burning like a valley side of windmills,
Making you come and go down into the valley:
You are his child and will live forever in the deep
Underground spaces of his roller-rinks,
While I will perpetually be the crazed soldier of a
Defeated war,
Beating my chest for you which echoes, while the waves
Become disinterested beneath, when before they’d been
A sorority beckoning for me;
And maybe one of them rises up a muse and cries
For me, and reads my lines while painting her lips and
Blackening her eyes, because she sees me as
A little boy in the hallways of her high school a decade ago;
But I have gone my soul: I am a dead firework,
And am the everything that cannot please, that is spent;
And you can’t get your money back,
And my love has gone underground with Satan, past all of
Those spheres,
Melting the other witches with her tears, making her home
In the cities that cry with the suicide and dead family pets
Into the earth,
Like crystals of sad birthdays going the wrong way;
And her Satan is a beautiful man with so many heads,
With none that resemble mine.