So carefully Recorded Preserved Each August Like a miniature Book about my life But what is this really A trance, a dream Wishes and dreams And hearts but never the bloody beating Reality The blood so inky, so Scarlet The way it blooms from a wound I got a wound once In the crater of a volcano Before the blood began to flow A flour bloomed on my knee And I now that flower blooms Eternal on my leg The scar of the wound Purple The acceptance of the Sacrifice a relief and a fear For I know not what She will require of me I only know that there is A moth to flame relationship No angelic, golden Soft goddess, Beckoning with Soft lips And softer flesh But tough, brutal Sureness In the act of creative destruction In I finger the flower Wishing for a return to The place it blooms Hoping in my heart She will welcome me Home and I will Abide and become The beginning and the end Of what I seek.
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