The perfect flower he created in his heart
The one that could not hurt him with her thorns
He washes the blood off his pierced hands with the dew on her petals.
Dangerous medicine for his not half cured wounds
He desperately embraces the danger
Her soft warm body, hot kisses
Painted on glass.
A prospector, insane through lonesomeness
Craving for the gold of her hair
While the gentle touch of her fingers creates
Words like honey drops are bitter manna for his starving soul
Stabbing his heart like poisoned knives.
Until he seeks ease
Diving into the quiet lake of her eyes
Secretly wishing to drown there when they close
So he would not have to ever leave.
He keeps walking the impossible forbidden path to her heart
In treacherous certainty that one day he will live there.
He delivers himself to these tender hands
To let the well known suffering they cause cover all those others he cannot control
The welcome pain, that tells him he is alive.
© ~ Neila ~ S. R. 2005