Fitting for the thoughts that this place always inspires,
like the hand of a saint brushed past it’s walls,
it haunts, and liberates me all at once.
What is this litmus between you and I,
neither of fire,
nor of water,
a breath escaping from the prison of my mind,
a gasp reverberating in syncopating time.
Finding you, finding me, finding you,
has become an obsession of improbable magnitude,
the lower I go,
the more sinful I am,
the stronger my urge,
the needier my purge.
wretched and supine,
almost torn twine,
and all I can do is hold my eye lids open,
trying not to flinch as it snaps.
Oh the sap, oh the sap,
the strumming of a harp,
the belting of a flute,
paralysing, humiliating me,
to absolutes and mute.
There’s silent mourn,
guilt and yearn,
torture and patience,
dead ends at every turn,
but grief is worth this slow twist and churn,
cold knife, the only way to learn.