Tuesday, 22 May 2012


It's a story of eight syllables
per line, or thereabouts
but throwing the form
is fine: quatrains don't have to
internally rhyme.

It's a story that starts like this:
glances, words, lips; the
joining of sensitive fingertips.
And by the end of it, all
is not fine.

But do you know why?
Well, here's the story.
I can no longer cry
over its telling

(but here comes the black gold:
here comes the

How can the human heart drown a person so? 
And in joyous joy still bring darkest sorrow?
And how can pleasures give one sleep
and yet spurn one in that deep to weep?

I loved her for many a year and
swore never to desecrate her form:
her body was a vessel, yes,
but we left our bodies behind:

we found the God in each other.
We said, is that us in the mirror?
Must be, she said. Can't not be, can it?
But looking upon my body

is like looking at myself in a photograph.
It does not seem real, because
my body has evaporated, escaped me,
and all that is left is light, and the

luminous manifestation of love.
And in these luminous truths she gave me eternal life.
And when she died, I eternally died.
And even though I know so much, I

can never survive without her at my side.
Can never love again. Because her love
is enough to sustain me in all lives: this
life, the future life, and all the lives I might wish

or not wish for. Her love opened up a door.
I stepped out from a small room to a verdant infinity.
She showed me the way, showed the body's decay,
but we were buried in ecstasy, two angels in flame.

So tell me how: how can the human heart 
drown a person so? And in joyous joy still bring 
darkest sorrow? Because the heart is an ocean:
I took a dip in hers, was submersed in the riptide,
drowned joyfully, secreted into that pulsing ribbon of muscle,

and I shall never find my way back home.

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