RETURN OF THE DARK AND SCARLETHEARTED DAWN

Tosca. Before it's too late. 

Before dawn. Before the blue burn and guillotined shadow walks.

Before the fall of June. High summer.

How much we wanted our Soprano to suffer for her Art, to really break her fucking leg when the dress she wore leapt toward hell to fight forever

to slit his throat again

to be taken in his arms against her will

to be told it is the only way 

to save her only love, her life

to flee into exile like a dove into morning

to slit his throat instead

to weep dark song to fly

to bury her face into her own warm breast and weep

to hear his cries in the wine-dark room

to look into the face of the police detective to refuse

to see into his jealous heated sneer the sparks of lust and power

to know it won't be enough to die

to hear a choir in the darkness

to become a bit of light, jealous as a candle spending itself to death

to find out in the middle of your goodness your heart is dark and loud

to love until you become this music

to murder

And at dawn when you think your lives are saved 

they are in sweet jeopardy.

And at the moment you are free 

the gunshots blackening are real

And the song you sang with him

in the blue heat before dawn comes 

back to you now because memory 

it is both forever and never too

And you perish over his dead body 

And the mob comes

And you promise not to return but to descend

And you climb the wall 

And the firing squad lends you its permanence

And your last breath is this curse 

Enemies are love.

. . . . . . .