My love for you is an ever-rising Sun. Just when I think it’s reached its zenith, still it ascends to greater heights — and oh, how it blazes.
Tag: love
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did we make love? I’m not sure. I don’t think we “made” anything. I think we already had plenty.
I think the lovemaking was metaphor, I think it was art. I think art is taking something ordinary and turning it into a symbol, the redemption of matter. To take what is mundane and make it sacred, some secret act of magic, some enchantment.
I don’t think we made love— we already had all the love in the world. I think we made art, though. I think we told each other of our love, a confession: our hearts already were one. Our bodies followed, told of that truth.
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he spoke of his favorite philosophers. none of them spoke of love. i can only conclude: they didn’t know a damn thing
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i think i’m done pretending. i thought i’d make it— i haven’t. why fake it?
this “confidence” is a shell. i’ve known love that’s pierced its veil.
what if i could let myself be loved as a human? what then? what if i could be a flawed human and bare it all: honest. myself.
what if i surrendered not just all that i am, but all that im not?
what then? what if i surrendered all i wished i was?
what might that be like? do i know how to love myself in that way, to love another in that way?
i think i’m done pretending. with that mask, you try to attract another. little did you know: you repelled what was honest.
no, opposites do not attract. you will not attract something true with pretty little lies. peel off that mask: your true face. there is a beholder who will see beauty.
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Chiron,
who can be worthy
to hold healing’s key
without first being wounded?
the initiate must suffer
and walk that long road.
along that path,
there are many a straggler.
many
who have given up the search
for some destination.
con artists
litter the sidelines,
selling their poison as healing.
but there is a light,
there is a light in that distance,
should you choose to see it.
but it is a long road.
it is a long road,
your body will ache,
you will tire,
but it is love
that suffers long,
it is love
that perseveres,
it is love alone
that guarantees safe passage.
you will take love’s hand—
she will not take away the ache,
but she will stroke your hair through it.
she will not cure your pain,
no, she will not erase your fear—
but she will sing to you through the night.
so walk that long road,
and take love
as your companion.
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the aftermath of a shooting star—that is what you are. a star falls from the heavens, celestial light gracing mankind. here am i, a mere mortal, walking with an angel. how lucky am i, to have your hand in mine. what higher fortune have i to thank? i know not, for you are my lucky star.
you are what happens when ether fuses with clay, when the heavens fuse with the earth.
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you were shaped
like God
took his time with you—
the hidden hand
of the sculptor
carved you with intent,
like it relished
the shaping
of your lips,
the slope
of your hips.
but,
if this art
was by accident,
like
the splattered canvas
of a sunset,
then I’ll call
sheer randomness
my God,
and my savior—
for you are myth,
you’re poetry,
you’re music,
you are all things
divine.
who makes miracles?
I can’t say—
but, as far as they go,
you are mine.
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putting words to our love,
the gravest insult:
like caging an eagle.
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Mothers wail
on the other side of the wall.
Comfort’s hands
cover my ears.
Blood spills
on the other side of the wall.
Comfort’s hands
cover my eyes.
Bodies rot
on the other side of the wall.
Brother’s hands
cover my nose.
Children die
on the other side of the wall.
Brother’s voice
eases my mind.
In a world
of horrors, we’d rather be blind.
Brother, brother,
sing us a lullaby.
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your eyes could make a romantic out of a cynic
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 