How does one climb up a mountain,
that great peak of the lover's self-doubt?
After wandering elsewhere for so long,
am I now found?
How can one convince a lover of her beauty,
nay, of her value?
I, Tiresias, though blind, could answer,
yet one must find thine own, dear worm.
Shall I tell you of that dark valley I love,
the rivulets of touch that reach down in to abandon?
When I speak of her body, she laughs;
when I speak of her heart, she tells me to shut up.
Yet, when she laughs I am overcome,
and those long nights spent speaking...cementing a meaning.
I am one apart, a man not comfortable in
full regalia, finding vulgarity resentful.
(Especially since I think myself ******)
Her resentment of her own body,
how shall I convince her otherwise?
She works with children,
yes children full of the need to be heard,
yet felled by genetics and denied
the right and ability to speak.
The connection between beautiful soul,
and wondrous mind,
and body of salvation.
Longing, longing, to be whom she needs.
And yet I know that I never will be a man
with a history or a story; that arrow through family
which she clings to.
All that I am is held in these insignificant flames,
a soul meeting another
and flowering.