What Once Was Ripped Apart

Our love has been but a narrow treacherous road that only the wretched walk.

‎cold winds have made ice of our bones and bullet rain have pelted our skin, battered our souls.

‎we carried on hoping to reach the light at the end of the tunnel

‎but it was two houses on fire - yours and mine

‎and our kin, like charcoal to the flame.

‎cast out, orphaned, our chests grew thorns

‎what is love without embrace? why should love rip our flesh apart?

‎

‎To hide our pain we built citadels of pearls,

‎gilded cages, singing birds.

‎roses bloom in spring to hide the musk of our skin

‎but when it wilts, and it's scent fades,

‎we're reminded again that our musk anchors us in what we'd rather forget.

‎

‎Rivers from the bishop's chalice do not wash the musk of sin

‎we may have to peel our skin to reveal the red of flesh

‎to testify that we're what we know we're not

‎that the heavens will open and show us streets of gold

‎Sebastian, saint Sebastian, mercy!

‎

‎What was our love is now an empty ache,

‎cold and tired, regretful, resentful.

‎the tide of our love is now a still lake,

‎what was, no longer is.

‎

‎cold wind wheezes past to snuff out the last embers.

‎

‎In another life, on another plane,

‎may what is dead resurrect 

‎may we not be tossed from raging sea to desert dry 

‎may our houses stand 

‎may our chests bloom 

‎may our embrace unite flesh that once was ripped apart.