living in a phaeton bier.
Palpitant Jins and wraiths appear
with proffers that are shaped in your name
for my era in shame.
Temporal Rex is my driver
and Eros is my seraph.
I feed on motes of his hot coal
then lay to rest when I've had enough.
These two will pay my toll.
From trellised buttresses I hear
Faustus sybarites who sing
strophe yelps for the Surfeit-King.
Aroused from sleep I stand to find near
hands outstretched for my ring.
The phaeton halts outside your door
and to the wind I implore
to halt the spirits in their drove
and carry me to the upper floor
to you in the alcove.
On ambo you stand with a glow
and part my lips for a word.
A coal jumps onto your trousseau.
Writing and burning, upwards you're spurred.
Elif Lam Mim,
As it should.
Fades like a dream,
I felt it would.