?

Is it a sin to worship her image?

What if it is?

If I puck out my eyes

I’ll only listen harder for her voice;

if stab my eardrums deaf

I’ll only breathe deeper

trying to catch

a trace of her perfume;

if I cut off my nose

I’ll only reach out to

find her with a touch

wishing she’d welcome it;

if I cut off my hands
I’ll only dream of the

taste of her kiss.

Do I seal myself in a cave,

where my senses will lose

their power,

only to be haunted by

relentless dreams of

a paradise lost?

This is the hell I’m

damned to;

it is eternal.

I’m mocked for having a god: and my god mocks me.

So, I’ll go into dark rooms

where sinners congregate;

I’ll find an empty vessel

who shares some of

your features,

I’ll give her your name

and pretend it has meaning.

I’ll pretend it has meaning.

My body aches with hope

for a soft heart;

an understanding soul

that caries

a light

to guide me through

the darkness;

I can’t make it on

my own.

I don’t want to be

alone.

Copyright © Colin Frizzell 2012