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: poet
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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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suffering breaks the silence, it does, it does. my mind’s gone quiet, there’s a quietness in stability. what do you do when all you’ve known your entire life is the sound of suffering?
i went to therapy and stopped having things to talk about. i opened my notebook, i had plenty to write about, little to whine about.
but the suffering, it changes its tone, living alone. i know i can feel still, books move me to tears. i can be moved, i can feel. but there is a quietness, it’s all so quiet.
i relish it, this silence is the sweetest sound.
stability is the strangest feeling after having known turbulent seas for so long— like hopping off a boat after the most treacherous of journeys. you can still feel the rocking of the ocean, even here, on solid ground. a phantom of the past.
but that’s all the past is, now: a ghost. i remember when i cried, night and day, for what i have now.
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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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The rest of the world is clothed, I alone am naked before a crowd. I run, and I hide — every spot I find is ripped from me — again, everyone’s eyes. Why am I so exposed? Why am I so bare? Why must I be so seen?
Why does the world hide? On me, I feel everyone’s eyes. Oh, my shame! I alone am a naturist in a world of Puritans. Their modesty makes me feel more naked than naked. A shadow cast over their eyes while I alone am thrust into the light. I can feel the judgement, I can feel the silent condemnation. But I can’t do it, I cannot hide! I’m stripped before the masses, but I think I’d suffer more standing among them, clothed, packed like sardines, side-by-side.
I cannot hide, cannot even try. But here am I, thrust into the light. I stand tall, I stand high: I bare it all. I need not hide.
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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.
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 