Truth is an arrow
it pierces, yet purifies,
leaving the wound clean,
a scar that remembers,
but does not deceive.

Hypocrisy is an ointment
it soothes, yet poisons,
numbing the pain,
covering rot with fragrance,
a sweetness that kills.

Better the cut of truth
than the kiss of lies,
for only what bleeds
may one day be healed.

She gave me words I could not catch, a tongue of winds and waves, yet to her shape I long to bend, to her silence I am slave.

Celtic is her language,
and mine cannot reach her song. Her face became my tempest, my anger, sharp and strong.

Yet to that face I’d gladly kneel, a pilgrim at her shrine
but first my hands must learn her skin, and make her body mine.

A narrow life I tread,
a path so worn, so thin.
The walls press close ahead,
and tear my soul within.

The sun burns bright outside,
on fields I may not roam.
My heart can scarcely hide
its aching call for home.

A home both wide and free,
where roots take hold, then grow;
where I may simply be,
and watch wild seedlings sow.

O words, you kiss before the lips,
a trembling heat, a slow eclipse.
You press the skin without a hand,
a secret tide, a hidden land.

You slip between the ribs unseen,
where hunger wakes and hearts convene.
More supple than a lover’s hair,
more naked still than bodies bare.

You moan in breath, you sigh in song,
you linger sweet, you burn too long.
A nerve’s caress, a bowstring’s hum,
you strike me deep, I come undone.

O words, unlace me, seam by seam,
make language flesh, make silence dream.
To walk unclothed within your fire,
and taste the ache of full desire.

Even if your body melts into mine,
if every curve and line has found its mirror,
still I would murmur:
Pull me closer.

For desire is a fire that refuses boundaries,
a hunger that drinks even from fullness,
a kiss that aches for its own echo
again, and again, and again.

The crow perches on stone and calls it a summit;
the falcon rises, carrying the summit in its wings.

The word lover clung like a borrowed coat,
tight at the throat, a choking note.
A name too small, a mask too worn,
where daylight dulled and night was torn.

But my body burned another song,
beneath the sun, the moon’s throng.
A hunger sharp, a tender sting,
when love was caged in spoken thing.

Then you appeared
your hand a flame,
a silence tearing through my name.
Through wandering tongues, through shifting skies,
you struck a lantern in my eyes.

Not "finger me", so brutal, bare,
but feel me breathing in the air.
Not "eat me out", that hollow cry,
but taste me where the dark stars lie.

Not "**** me", thrown into the night,
but **** me "God" till it’s a rite.

Your words, like threads of molten fire,
wrapped me hard in raw desire.
A temple rose, not clean, but true:
I opened whole, I opened new.

And oh, my God
what filthy love can do.