It hurt, at first.
Removing bits of you, from me, like shards of stained glass.
Black until they’re plucked and kissed by sunlight.
They glow but do not glimmer like before.
The gift that kept its form and changed its purpose.
Like the sun rising and setting.
I’ll miss their pulse but beauty is not reserved solely for the living.
You can love a dead thing if in death it still has meaning.
And just like the flame that cauterizes flesh,
Sometimes the hurting is the healing.
If words and ways are wine,
and wisdom nectar sweet,
and every mouth that savours them, contentedness entreats.
Then may my tastebuds never dull,
and my cup be endless in its depth,
so I may live and learn until my dying breath.
I dream of roses.
Scattered so deliberately, and bloomed so precisely, I have no right to walk among them. I am afraid.
So certain of their own serenity, like cosmic diamonds of the night sky.
I reach out through the silence and grab one, it cuts me and my hand weeps rubies, I wonder if I too am kissed by divinity?
And then a voice.
The voice tells me “You are divinity. ”
The voice tells me “The roses are not truth.”
I hesitate. And for the first time I question their splendor.
I open my hand, and recognise the smell of iron.
The voice tells me “You are truth.”
As I tighten my grip around the stem, starlight escapes between my fingers.
I unearth this resplendent illusion, it decays, they all decay.
I see the rot and I understand.
I am no longer afraid.
I could feel her watchful eyes upon me, longing I was sure, for acceptance, for love, for more. An ever expanding darkness between us, I braved it.
Her beast it had no name, it hissed, and warned, and clawed…I tamed it.
I scaled the walls seduced by vines and roses, thorns and all. Always a price I thought…I paid it.
With cuts, with mud, with sweat with blood, I lay my eyes upon her scars the same as mine and she trembled.
Mementos from this life and the last, no lock on her door, her window no bars. She could leave whenever she wanted.
We talked a while in different shades of green, I gave her her yellow roses and she gave me emeralds.
I drink her pain she does the same, and tends to wounds from beast she now resembled.
Our purest moment clouded as our darkest thoughts assembled.
I fall, of course, she smiles a wicked smile with outstretched arms and shimmering eyes.
I feel her watchful gaze once more as I return to the divide.
She heeds me, though I am a fool.
She trusts me, though I am a liar.
She c lings to me, though I cannot protect her.
She loves me, though I do not love myself.
What does she see that I do not?
Faith in a seed.
I feel the weight of both our worlds.
In a gaze that somehow comforts and heals.
But reflected in those eyes is a visage not my own.
I am not the one.
Still she walks with me, gently. Patient.
She will never leave my side.
Loyal to the man I’ve yet to become.