Looking at your old photo

Your face is there, your smile, your ways,
Those lovely eyes that you have got,
But not the passion, no, and not
The searing tenderness which days
And days saw burnt like matchsticks in
A forest fire. I have become
A slave in lands of gods undone,
I speak across debris of sin!...
But though I’ve gone as blind as fire
My tongue has lost its chains, I’m set
To sing and leave Medusa’s mire.
I go where we have never met,
But if we do, without my viper:
We begin where I forget…