Love and Words


the Madness of Desire


Sew me a robe

made from skeins of history, 

wield your golden needle

and make the stitches true.

Dress me in mourning

and douse the room

  --there will be no feast tonight.

Seize the revelers that gather at the gate.

Press them to service as mourners.

This journey

shall begin with a shroud.

Away with all advisors!

Away with couriers of news!

Away with all this youth, 

  --for I have need of experience tonight.

Bring me torch and flame

and before mourner's wail

I will undo the record of my shame.

To ash distraction shall crumble.

Stables of gilded bone become coal, 

and all I have allowed chance near

shall away on wind blow.

I shall step in traveler's kit,

a stranger from my own ruin, 

and begin my pilgrim's trek

fair free from all

but what remains within.

You think me mad, 

such a high compliment

I take that to be,

for I want no more

of this callous death you have named


I want no more of darkness

you call 'light'

or love that is not freedom

but blight. 

For I have remembered

the desire that guides me.

A love that I do not now know, 

but rested with once, 

only to take my leave.

Not realizing what I sought

lay with that company.

The gods being gods

like to play first 

before offering sympathy,

and I, 

besotted on promise, 

forgot my longing.

They let me stumble and drift,

entertaining in my hollow excess.

Till now reminded

and shown,

my willingness to spend a lifetime

waiting for what may never exist.

Relying on chance

rather than step.

You think this is sacrifice, 

this leaving walled gardens and warmth?

It is not.

For I know that even if my desire is not met, 

I will have lived a better life.

then any kind I found here,

where there is no difference

between grave and bloom.

My anger is wed to my grief, 

their trousseau

the fine lines that drape my face.

My heart beats equal now, 

knowing not the difference 

between love or riot, 

a distinction thought easy by the young.

It is not my heart anymore

I leave to make such choices, 

but my soul, 

that is governed by all,

not just froze moments.

My soul who is guiding me now,

away from comfort I mistook for judgment,

indecision and fear

I celebrated as strength.

For though my heart once freed me, 

it was too frail to prevent this sickening of senses,

this poison,

my steady weakness for safety.

All these years past, 

in my ever bigger and ever brighter and more crowded halls,

I have dressed my sorrow in laughter

and chased it from the room, 

never wanting to hear its' question

for fear of gathering gloom.

Better a clown.

Better some shining false jewel, 

then for me to face the pain

of having missed you.

What madness possessed me

to think that love could be subdued?

Barricaded behind cold walls 

and silenced with good food?

Ordered and controlled by 

season and holiday?

It was madness I tell you, 

madness to imagine that.

And here now late,

late I am to have awaken

and only by accident fate

to have found the strength

to stand before all I have known, 


as it burns to the ground.

By dying flame shall my first miles be shown.

My madness now is not the thought, 

that by retracing my steps

I would find you again at rest,

but that perhaps, 

in the few years I have left, 

I can once again find

the person 

you believed me to be.

And if I find nothing more nor less, 

that alone 

would at last

give my soul 



decagon          poetry 



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