Saturday, February 22, 2014

The death of self

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.


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