The death of self
I need to get a grip.
Blood has slickened the shaft
of the arrow sticking from my chest.
It's love that bloodies the water,
seeping through from another realm;
sets things spinning; tainted,
myopic, half a bubble out of plumb.
If I could see clearly where myself ends
and others begin, I could count my charges,
leave others to their own tallies.
Love turns virtue into an impediment,
piety into predicament; divinity is in the blood,
the humble cloaks of our beings
shot through with silver and gold.
It's love that hobbles and wounds;
the taste of blood creates such a hunger -
such a longing to be devoured (forever) -
heart, soul, blood and bones.
O child of God, love is the rasp and the balm
which hastens the death of self.