This Love
This love simpers as it scratches.
It has no face yet is etched in beauty.
It tugs the root of you,
it nails sorrow to just sadness
then when you are alone
turning in a bedroom cyclone
it lifts you into a twirling bliss.
Who said that God was dead?
God is a portrait of you as you should be,
of course it hurts when you look into the mirror
it is meant to.
Of course these crowns of thorn
we weave in secret
draw an iron blood
how else would we recover
from this self, this love,
this prayer that bleeds
through the ears of all who yet
still bay at a sightless moon.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
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