Coven

I talk to Robert sometimes
I'm not in love with him
I am him.
And Fyodor, too, and Heinrich--
that bawdy knave--
He's completely unworthy of anything but scorn,
and yet he makes me laugh.
At night we commune like a coven of witches
in a place where sex and age are irrelevant.

What can I say in the presence of these giants?
I can add nothing--
for, "the more words, the less meaning",
and yet--
"How can I keep from singing?"

I must fall in adoration at the feet of my Dmitri,
worshipping the inexorably numinous
while breathing the same air as Aleksandr,
sharing a sisterly shiver with Edna and Alma,
as we watch the last flickers of the fire fade
into the frightening and arousing night.

Who is not angry here?
Who is not in pain?
Love and hatred are brought here
only as a vehicle to the outside,
for we cannot truly love or hate one another,
only blend our passions in a yearning for
the Numenon.

Some of us call it Truth,
others Beauty, others Love,
but we all pursue the same Force.
It leads through our own bodies and through the air.
It flutters the curtain,
taunting us with glimpses of green that is greener than green--

Why is it that we are given to see it,
while others see as through thin gauze, dry and dusty?
Are we chosen?
Is it some twist of biology or genetics?
Are we sick or crazy?
Are we victims of some great supernatural prankster?
Are we here because we chose to be,
praying and begging for this fervent enchantment?
Or did we choose, pray, and beg
because we were given to do so,
desiring that fever because we were given to desire it?

What is symbol and what is original?
Is there an answer to our Question?
Charles couldn't find one,
and neither can the rest of us.
But that is what brings us together.
It is the bread and wine of our Communion,
the nectar and ambrosia that make us gods.

If you think this is silly,
If you think this is overdramatic,
a mere ploy for undeserved attention,
If you think this is irrational,
and you admit it aloud,
You reveal yourself as Not Of Us--
a commoner in the midst of a thousand geniuses,
a Philistine, a grown-up,
a vulgar peasant in a crowd of glittering heroes,
unable to comprehend our vocabulary,
unable to empathize with our souls,
unworthy to judge us.

We are sick,
and you are healthy,
and we are better than you.