It was born innocent.

Its first steps were of
passion,
as if passion were all
there is:

God was passion, the earth was
passion; I ate and drank the
blessed insanity,
the inspired madness
that burns within.

Where are you now,
killer angel?
You fed me in the shadows,
now you starve me in
the light of day.

See my hunger crawling
on this petal-soft moment,
watch the trees sink into
darkness I carved from a
glacier of mindless love,

just more darkness I added to
the world.

Love, as we define it, is
somewhere, shape-shifted,
playing games,
probably crossed
over into the spirit lands
by now.

I thought I saw it tangled up
in sobbing leaves and choking
light as I stumble
over the last
of heaven on my way
to a lovers' hell.

Water dreaming of fossilized sky . . .
the soul watches
from behind the pain.
It quarrels with
the fire within,
arguing its case for beauty.

Even beauty babbles
since I crashed
into your world
and you,
into mine.

Listen if you can, soul
falling fast:

night is a dragon after dark
but it sheds its scales
the moment the
spirit's eyes
open and the mind
can't tell
the difference between
dreams and
a shower of stars.

Still the scaly love clings
to me, a serpent,
sweet dementia, a god,
a jester, a martyr
blessing a death that is
not death,
crowning himself with a
quasar of holiness.

I embrace the destruction,
and love again.

© Patricia Joan Jones