Her Drummer's Native Chant-Dance

Venus radiated like a glowing porch light,
her diffused brilliance swam across the pitch sky
in the moonless, pre-dawn hours, draping my gaze
with her alluring, fascination-dripped countenance.
As a warm spring wind buffeted all around me,
the haunting specter of a familiar, feminine face
filled my half-awake, heavy-lidded eyes' field of vision
with her full, pouty lips and big, dark, cavern pool eyes.

As a breath rasped between my gaping lips,
I recalled moments from my now-ancient past,
requisite recondite glimpses between flashing
flame flickers licking from a candle's lost longing.
The rhythm of my heart pounded to the beat
insisted by her drummer's native chant-dance,
furtively howling into the vast star field expanse -
a black-robed, velvet-throated sacrificial oblation.

A still silence eternally coupled us like links
in a macrocosmic chain as intimate confidantes
in a realm beyond tactile encounters, where spirits
soar on wings of fire and bloom like lilacs, alone.
She challenged me with chants from her erotic
Demiurge to weave stranded patterns of golden
light waves across the sands of time, and to unlace
the bonds of ignorance, permitting salvation's reign.

The waters of my world froze solidly and ceased
to flow years ago, after the current of our magnetic
dynamism spontaneously combusted in the fusion
of cause and effect, dispersing our electric charge.
In the pre-dawn, solipsistic hours, her silent chant
beckoned to a long-dormant, fissile facility to strew
gnosis' seeds upon fertile ground, and heedless
of benediction's constraint, I returned her gaze.