Poem By A. L. Breitling

How do I hate thee, Ariel.
Why, wind muscle torn
came you to my cave,
and I, fearing light and song,
loved hating my echo
too much and thee too little.
Water from stones
drips an audible hourglass,
marking eternity and the time
since the healed wind muscle
and the flown song left in tears.
Years are minutes for these
weeping rocks
and hours memories
of a naked injury, words of want,
and a swelling enmity between us.
The beast rages now in its cage,
alone in a liquid darkness
that is the wakened soul
open-eyed thrown back
into its own black imaginings.
What is this part of me
which calls you home
and pushes up a wall of loam
toward the cleft
where you must have entered.
That fear which is bravery
brought me beside you,
made massive by the arrogant creatures
which cling from my primordial mire.
How like a god I may have seemed.
Divine is this blade of hatred
which I feel turning again,
now that you are back to your blowing
and winds of beauty.
Sweet creature of my hate
that you may yet break your wing
and fall again into the darkness
of my cave.

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