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the tired, lonely heart

13 September 2010

what kind of love is a hidden love,
a forbidden love, a desire
like a raging inner fire
for something so absurd as to be
laughable–
if only the pain of it didn’t hurt so;
and where is the perfect peace
that passeth all understanding?
yea, when a sword pierces my heart
and the consuming fire of our God
distills away the wheat from the chaff
and you realize that what you want
is only a golden calf
and, though your heart may feel sore,
you see yourself only as temptation’s whore
where the payment you receive is suffering and death,
which you, sickeningly enough, receive as a gift
the only release you can hope to receive…
do you keep praying for forgiveness, or reprieve?
what kind of love is an obsessive love
that turns grown men into dragons
snuffling and snuggling a gilded hoard
clutching and biting, guarding for theft
of that which makes no difference
when the final scores are settled;
and then, what will you count
cold and lonely and tired
when the sheep are all gone,
having been separated from the goats.

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2 Comments leave one →
  1. 13 September 2010 20:17

    We each have our golden calves. At least one.

    Reading this is like trying on a coat that is too small (in the waist), too flamboyant for my age — and I think it fits perfectly, even when I know it doesn’t.

  2. 13 September 2010 20:35

    “what kind of love is an obsessive love
    that turns grown men into dragons
    snuffling and snuggling a gilded hoard
    clutching and biting, guarding for theft
    of that which makes no difference”

    That … those phrases, the imagery is powerful, there. And set within the rest,… oh for the hope that answers these lines, filling the emptiness, replacing false treasure with true, and warming with a light that enables a new appreciation of beauty.

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