But god, now, is undone, unalone. Singing haunts him, A singing not his singing, Someone else, Melodious, beautiful, the lovesong of all being He despises for ungoding him, Even as he loves the songstress.
Solitude’s a holy thing, and corrupted, a violent carnival.
Chaos scattered into souls. God avenging his loneliness On Harmony, the bird flying in his heart, That sang him into nightmares. Souls desire being chaos.
God stole in the room. God put out the light. God and his slaying Love, before Genesis, is in Othello.
S. T. Brant is a teacher from Las Vegas. Pubs in/coming from Door is a Jar, Santa Clara Review, Another Chicago Magazine, New South, a few others. Twitter: @terriblebinth; Instagram: @shanelemagne.