There is the letting go and
there is the letting God.
Both are very nearly, very
nearly, very impossible.
And still the heart screams
for release.
Take it from me, you, Lord,
who hold out your universal
palm, wide and warm and deep
and all encompassing. Take.
It from me, this bloody muscle
that beats a steady rhythm of
pain and pleasure, pleasure
and pain, for all things cost.
I have loved and lost, as the old
song goes. And loved again.
And again, and the disappointment
is deep, and cuts, and wounds
for life. Nothing passes. Not even
the pleasure, which keeps
one foot in front, one dragging
behind, dead limb
drawing a line in the dust
of the drunken and maddening road.
It is what drives me. This ravenous
appetite for joy. Remembered
as if I had once known it. I did
know it. The bond that hums
through the bones when a touch
is not just a touch, but a meshing
of body soul spirit mind and bone,
lattice of skeletons molten together
into one clanking bell
ringing in the morning.
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