Regret

Curse it. CURSE IT! So much lost. So much missed. So much still unacknowledged. So much pain. So much--too much. So many ignored. So many assumptions. So many inhibitions. And now...I want to know. I don't want to be afraid to care. It's too late to be uncaring. I want to be of use, of help. I have long wanted to, have long feared answers, have long feared rejection or indifference. I fear above all things my own indifference. Many things I regret.

I'll be all right someday. I just need to wake up and find the door of this tomb.

Who are you? I want to know.

I only know partially myself, and I don't seem important enough that I should bother to help you understand me.

Who I am doesn't matter. It's you I should want to know.

Why are we all so frightened? It can only get better only if we're willing to risk it. Yet to cast aside doubt and distrust and truly be honest with each other is a difficult undertaking. So easy it is for someone to pass judgment rather than to show compassion. To be trusted one must bear evidence of an open and gentle heart. One must say, in words or action or attitude or all above, I will listen. I will be here. I will care. I will love.

That takes courage, more than I have. So help me God.

I only want to be useful before I die.

"...the deepest self is way down, and the conscious self is an obstinate monkey."

--DH Lawrence

Relief/Remorse.

Recall it. It has slipped into the mere
Of memory, lost in the multitude
Of memories, as eyes open upon
The bare morning
And dreams forgot.

I never thought,
Dwelling in the myth of my survival,
That I could countenance the merest hope,
That it was requisite, that it was right
To love you or
By you be loved.

No stone unmoved.
I moved, a revolution. In its wake
Hesitancy, and grief unfathomed, fear,
Guilt--an armory against compassion.
Hungry despair
Sharpens its teeth.

Foulest of breath--
The naked bones of the present provide
Greedy incentive; the tireless demon
Swallows the future. Darkness closes in,
Shutting out all
But a vacuum.

There is no room
For thought, or breath, or anything but prayer
An open mouth, a tomb, testimony
To poverty, destitution, dearth. Groans
Only suffice
For want of blood.

The ear of God
Is metaphor; the ear of God, a Man
Of sorrows, was physical; into which,
Perhaps, trickled the embalming perfume
And the love-grief
Of whores and thieves.

Whom He receives
He scourges. This I did not understand,
Believed I was condemned. I felt nothing,
No punishment save my insanity,
Self-inflicted
And ponderous.

Not virtuous.
No love for God, no fruit from Heaven born,
No bending to surrender all my will,
No will to beg for grace or seek to find--
I threw myself
Against His door.

A metaphor.
The ear of God, our High Priest, exalted
Right Hand of God, acquainted with our grief;
Our Savior, God, Intercessor and Lover--
Not metaphor
But verity.

I think I see.
From silence, purgatory pain will burn
The remnants of a heart, or compression
Will force the shards together, forcing blood
And infection
From faulty seams.

My silent screams
Heard by the ear of God, and met with grace
To speak, an altogether unforeseen,
Undeserved mercy-- as I will, I love.
Wretchedness/wealth
A transaction.

Satisfaction.
This love, which drives me near to God and man,
which drives beyond fear/doubt/pride/shame/despair--
This love, most potent of all miracles,
Is not a farce.