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(Fear of (God) is Love)

January 18, 2013

Dimly, deep inside, there lies quiet terror
eyeing the uneven pavement,
whispering its certainty that
“Love is just a slow nightmare,
a sugar-coated cigarette
hand-wrapped especially for me
to breathe in as I watch
still-life rising action
until that sudden-subtle shift,
and the spilling fallout.”

That terror recalls
depth of space:
our frozen fireball marble home
orbiting our sun of hydrogen,
with seven dead planets for company,
known only by the camera,
all far away from anything,
and drifting farther, with language

that is mere description.

The terror asks me:
“What are you in mind, in body?
A puppet made of particles,
constructing something you call sanity,
recklessly wading into quicksand,
professing wisdom and love,
with vision like the blind.
They should write a book about you,
call it
Of Moths and Men,
with the way you fly to fire.”

Fire. The divine transmutation.

I let my eyes retrace my words, and my tongue
as it listed over her ridges in hunger.
The light cannot touch her softness
but it can tell, and I follow it in swirls
of thoughts and idle hands,
thinking to myself
that surely this is close to Eden.

And from what lost world did I just emerge,
where the brilliant unknown –
clearly ordered in complexity,
resting ripe for exploration, and begging faith –
was painted malevolent and alone?

The terror flickers and with it a façade.
I gasp and snap and realize:
I am not afraid, anymore, but my ego is still terrified.
Through gooseflesh I feel it shudder –
shock and awe, fear and trembling.
By empathy not pity I am moved.
It is muted but not silent, and forgiven,
but restlessly resenting me, waiting to escape.
But I am its steward, and it will come around.

I consider with dispassion the bitters –
absurdity rendered in high-definition
and sprawled out in four dimensions
for our pleasure – and leisurely I marvel,
for without fear what security is love?

Sans articulation, I imply these thoughts
as I let my palm brush strokes of affection
over sun-freckled shoulders.
I pull her in,
warming myself against her
with playful kisses.

Tuned to surreality, and receptive,
I glance over at the Deceiver, smile
and thank him for illuminating that
the depth of God is pathos.

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From → Poetry

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