Sep 2011
I chisel words
from the spaces round my heart,
giving shape to longing and desire.
Touch me I whisper, then cringe
fearing, yet not afraid
of that exquisite torture,
merging into one.
Tell me who you are,
I will show you my wounds
if you’ll show me yours.
Stigmata,
the holy cross of love,
hanging on the crucible of self.
I’m tempted sometimes by the void,
to step off into the silence.
It doesn’t take much,
no angst, loneliness,
despair or pain,
just a good day to die.
from the spaces round my heart,
giving shape to longing and desire.
Touch me I whisper, then cringe
fearing, yet not afraid
of that exquisite torture,
merging into one.
Tell me who you are,
I will show you my wounds
if you’ll show me yours.
Stigmata,
the holy cross of love,
hanging on the crucible of self.
I’m tempted sometimes by the void,
to step off into the silence.
It doesn’t take much,
no angst, loneliness,
despair or pain,
just a good day to die.
Another thing I have learned with age is how harrowing the opening of one's heart is to another. This poem expresses that...and the fragile nature of just being...how easy it is to just slip away if you are not careful. A theme I return to every now and then.- From Poetry Jam (on Toast)
