Heartaches come in
many colors, heights,
and smells.
But the pain in my heart
is always in that same
eternal spot.
It is a place of dread,
torture, and war.
How many times do I
have to experience this
place
before I learn the key
that opens the door
of love?
Love’s chamber
is where I have been
searching
only to find myself
imprisoned over and
over again
in the darkness of the
spot.
I can feel
when I approach the place
of torment and execution
of the Self.
Close to its edge
I try to step away only
to get sucked into it.
Once entombed, there is
no escape.
Only time and self-examination
helps me
move beyond the oblivion
within my chest.
Will he
ever love me again?
Will he want to caress
my mind with his wand
of light?
On tiptoes I reach my
hand out of the hole hoping
he will grasp my wrist
and pull me to the surface
where love works to restore
the meaning of life.
I fear I have lost the
hand to help me recover
the green-blue orb of
kisses with admiration.
The hand
that once helped me has
disappeared
some where on the surface
where my dreams
unite in oneness with
all life.
My hand reaching out of
the area of anguish
finds no one there on
this endless, moonless
night of
train whistles, police
sirens, highway traffic,
and barking dogs.
My muse
is a muse of atonement
and regret of all my lost
love,
love lost due to my own
lack of enlightenment,
wild anger, and poor communication
with my true self.
Then, peaking over the
hole, I see a paradox.
If he is a hermaphrodite
and we are a hermaphrodite
then his liberation is
my liberation.
Sharing destinies, his
place of peace is my place
of peace.
If his heart hardens to
my efforts at recovery
and health
choosing to walk away
from my hand that needs
him,
he is not the soul to
lift me from the emotional
holocaust
that are clogging arteries
of intimacy.
Tomorrow or perhaps the
next day when he comes
again
will he bring words of
reconciliation or a moving
van?
Doctress
Neutopia
May 10, 2003