what cross do you bear?
whisper to me the pains you've repressed,
the regrets that consume you,
divulge to me your darkest sins,
and lend utterance to your woes.

how do you build the ark,
that exists in your mind?
rocking in the arms,
of the slow, swinging seas,
whilst quixotic dreamers,
dance across the sky,
lost in the clouds.

solace in tears,
premonitions in fears,
let me cradle your soul,
and mend,
piece by piece,
plastered poultices,
and golden lacquer scars,
sealing all that ran deep.
let me shoulder your burdens,
so that one day, you may learn
and live alongside them.

so long as molten rock,
anoints our heads,
and flickering flame,
sears our feet,
we shall traverse
the crucible that is life.

each bearing a cross,
and a crown of thorns,
we are beautifully broken,
the faceted protagonists
of faded film noir.

we will prevail.

It's okay.
It will be alright.
I won't lie awake
Throughout the night.
This is good.
It's what I wanted.
Don't be upset when
It all goes Wrong.
So wrong.

My poultices
Were poisonous,
Infecting her
Open wounds.
For every tear
I thought to shed
she'd already bled tenfold.

I couldn't see?
I didn't know?
I claimed affection...
Yet it didn't show?

It's too late now
For me
To turn back
What has been done.
I'll hold Her Heart close
In memories
Alone.

They apply the
      herbal poultices
to my broken frame
surrounding me with light
to melt the pain
They put their cooling
   healers' hands
around my heart
wrap it in a
         temporary tourniquet
so its beats
don't fall apart
and despite this endless
sadness
    I'm alive
due to my breathing
        gasping madness
to survive
My will is shining
glowing
bursting through
   despite the burning
craving soulful
missing
   of only you
The fire in my ribcage...
it will burn
but my healers-
they are tenderly
taking turns
administrating care
and tending to
     my needs
using ancient
knowledge of how
to cure
and how to bleed
and while I lie here
gashes open, old wounds exposed
My healers feel my pain
and simply know
"It's okay, sweet woman warrior
it takes time for deep cuts
to close" they whisper
knowing I can hear
subconsciously this prose
Inside their medicine bag
with its mysterious potions
they make bandages
from silk
rub in soothing lotions
As hurt gets released
into the potent air
in my semi-conscious
state
I am thankfully aware
that this is a chance
to just allow myself
to feel
Let sadness
go through me
in rivulets
in streams
Cleanse my aching
loving heart
until it
gleams

I do not want
your blazing orange sunset
or the jewels of false words
to wear as a noose
around my neck
These are not treasures
Instead give me
your darkness
Open the door of pain's palm
and let me enter
For I come bearing gifts,
not tricks
press poultices that sting
then soothe
Words of gentle spikes
that slowly release and remove
those tensions,
that years of bitter
have imprinted upon the rock
of your heart
Your heart, so alive
beats steady under stone
and I pour
hot potions
that melt to the bone
This magick will cure
all of the built-up crust
of falsity's allure
and what we thought was redemption….
For all along we were loved
and just did not know it
After you are empty
and spent, sprawled upon the ground
the remnants of your pain
poured out upon the floor
like gasoline waiting to be lit
only then will I be able
to caress you tenderly
help you replenish and rebuild
place a ripe, moist date
stuffed with almond
into your kiss
and you will be able to
taste it
to the fullest volume
and appreciate
its
sweetness

Consider, if you will, the fullness of all
Which Nature has made, seemingly infinite in variety
Its endless permutations randomly arrayed
In such a manner that science and piety
Would concur that its bounty is to be enjoyed
For nothing more than its boundless, lovely inscrutability
Yet its works exhibit a consistency
To be employed in the service of mankind,
A felicitous though unacknowledged design
Enabling the manufacture of such potions,
Such poultices designed to bend the wills of men
As they are, regrettably, such malleable, lightweight notions,
Not given to steadfastness or certainty of action
The upshot of which sadly proved beyond my ken,
A final, fatal blunder, a failing to sufficiently consider
That man lacks the stability of the simple hyacinth
And what he has created, God shall put asunder.