that which we love

and beyond the veneer

truly, madly, deeply

a direct resonance in Soul

in a place

where no one else can see


so private, so secret


this is what we

push away

because we cannot control


such as these


so scary, so real


the bastions of pride

makes ramparts high

to repel

that which we love,

and, with burning oil


so unsure, so trembling


and the ache of it

a chasm in being

for want of fingers

touching across

a void


so yearning, to be touched deep within


to spark electricity

shocking as thunder

barbed wire beyond

all the minefields

on a Christmas day


a denied hint of promise


soon the varnish

paints itself

a corner in,

as icy cold

as winter’s reason


so safe, so nothing


that which we love

must always be

stranger unto us

because it is

safer that way … …