Arrow-Hearted

Brought to a cell where the floor is river mercury,
where jade imbues the walls,
a drink to immortal solitude
in this one brain death.
 
Inside a silphium fruit, extinct fossil
callused of overgrazing of the heart,
we barricade ourselves in a soulspace enlodged in the triad, traverse appetite and a spirit.
 
Few can live in a human's heart.
An alchemist of the reason tries to squeeze toxic fluorescent into one leaf's gold
on which to write that "All is one".
But the ego resists the transmutation.
Alchemy is dead.
Chivalry is dead,
and so is romance.
All that is left is the pillage of jade
and leave your hearts to the jacks of solitaire.
This tomb encloses forever,
and there's no light except for the burning mercury of the floor when the mood ripens.
 
But I will to be a citizen of that place,
sequestered and hoping to alchemy that the raven guarding the bolted window for dibs at my bones
might age for swan and off to phoenix
and return to my captor a bar of a gold
that might alter these conditions.
 
Take me to that unholy corner
and obey the Ouroboros of fate,
that just as this cell rose from the death of innocence,
it will return to innocence
and the new young will dance for rain on an open field of corn
deprived of transient riches of an arrowed heart's psychic catacomb.