Thursday, May 10, 2012


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

Copyright © Colin Frizzell 2012

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