Love Lies Bleeding

Speak not to me

of love

for it crowds out reason,

madness reigned supreme,

for endless seasons.

 

Speak not to me

of rage,

infamous, second cousin

to love’s name.

By extension,

I’ve savored

her acquaintance.

Speak not to me

of pain,

the legacy of love

gone awry.

Speak not to me

of shame,

which has sullied and blackened,

silken sheets.

Acidity courses,

unbidden,

eating avidly

through streams of my consciousness.

Speak not to me

of patience,

I have none left to give.

Speak to me

of sweet freedom,

of endless flight,

and quenchless hunger.

Speak to me

of fire,

of gilded light,

of virgin doors,

beckoning,

ever beckoning…

Speak to me

of discovery and wonder.

Speak to me

of epiphanies,

symphonies,

whispered whimsies,

for my soul demands it.

Speak to me

of synergy,

unfettered by,

unfettered by,

unfettered by,

my wordless,

drawn out,

guttural cries

of disjointedness, discordance

and disappointment.

Speak to me

of hope and possibility.

Yes, possibility.

Mines to claim

as long as I draw breath.

Assure me

that they wait

- still -

outside my door.

Am I

not yet forsaken?

Branded by missteps,

wrong turns,

tattered, misplaced trust

and forlorn beliefs?

Or may I

start anew again?

Say there are

rainbows left for me.

Hope,

yes hope,

mines to seek,

flawed though I am.

Burgeoning joys,

undiscovered,

awaiting the silkiness

of my questing touch.

That I am,

alas,

understood…

and forgiven.

An unwilling witness

to Love

which

Lies

Bleeding…

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