by Chris Ernest Nelson
A lover’s heart is in his tongue.
He is called to tame the wild thing.
And as its master, he must guide it
into deep and dangerous dominions.
The fault belongs to him who speaks.
He’ll not escape the dungeon of his words,
he can’t reclaim them once they’re spent.
They’ll long echo in corridors of regret.
The lover can’t harvest what isn’t ripe.
Bounty in the temple or in the sheets,
the rich man surrenders it with tears and
makes a vain declaration in the giving.
He can’t possess more than he can give,
nor can he give what he does not possess.
Such words the treasures born of yearning.
And what he fails to surrender… is taken.
May God befriend all those who hate him.
The empty dawn, with the stalking terrors
of the night still sitting on his bed, will mock
Ver o post original 4 mais palavras