Patience

More than three years ago began a poem, and never finished. Until tonight.

"There is no fear in love;
but perfect love casteth out fear:
because fear hath torment"
1 John 4:18

I pour my sadness on this page and try to yield to Fate,
but Will is weaker than Desire, so still I clutch the blade
and push it tight against my breast as though it were her hand.
My sorrow drips onto the floor and mixes with my blood;
the grain is made, the seed is sown and now there comes a bud
that springs a flower that can lead my essence to her land.

Where colour cuts all eyes to shreds, the place you call 'a dream',
Where beauty pierces more than pain and silence mutes the scream.
The grass devours the Lion's flesh, the dust erodes its bones;
the Dragon dreads to spread its wings above this fatal trail,
And warns me not with blaze nor burn, but bare abysmal wail,
that those that can't devise its end will perish here alone.

My sight has read a thousand lives, each step a myriad deaths;
The path is paved in carmine light, the dusk of my close breaths.
The citadel waits nigh at hand, its gates bloom to my rhyme,
Within its carcass stark and scourged, mon coeur illumes the pit.
I clasp, reclaim my mortal sin, to weave as I see fit,
To find a match to flame away the very frame of time.