I have a bad habit of worshiping people...
Eyes,
those fabled
windows to the soul,
oh, such eyes!
Like fire under ice.
And hands,
to crush or comfort,
to have and hold,
such hands!
Like stone—the stones of home.
What god has known devotion,
what saint known love?
All pedestals fail,
all monuments pale,
but my faith in you remains.
Flesh is flesh, I know,
and finite,
but passion makes perfection out of flaws.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Deified
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
3 comments:
Nice work, I too have had similar experiences and have written about it in the past, I shall unbury it and post it...maybe, soon, or I dont know maybe not yours stands quite well itself
I often think that's what it's like to love in this fallible world. It's disappointing, ideals get stained with shit, dreams crumble, reassemble, crumble again--but we keep on loving (worshipping!)anyway because something indestructable in us needs to. Another great poem!
"...passion makes perfection out of flaws."
I absolutely love it! Nice work.
Post a Comment