Jonathan--
The honey of your father's curse passed lips unwitting;
you sought your own, replaced the pollen with the poppy,
a death that should have been yours.

Did you find it, what you sought?
Were you lost and found . . . Or caught?
You ate your fill--you eat it still--
long before the ending falls.

Before pale Hecate calls

And so our off'rings turn to dust. They must.

For the one you say you've mastered,
the one that you've enslaved,
December hunts your haunted halls
and crawls . . . and crawls . . .
You'll cave.

Jonathan--
The oenomel flows sweetly here.
The touch, the taste, the thumb along the face,
a poison pleasanter than pain.
Save sorrow for the plain, for you are god, today!
And no god need care for the fools he let out to play.