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

feelings,

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 … …