These my offerings,
tiny and fragile, they must take root
in stubborn soil. Fertilize them.
Give them shape. Twisted they may grow,
but their trunks must be strong.
They must reach through the night.
They must be of their ground...
Some of these poe...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"I went to the Garden of Love... And I saw that it was filled with graves... And Priests in black gowns were making their rounds, And binding with briars my joys and desires." - William Blake
I made a journey by ferry to the Chapel of Love; and entered, naked, hair flowing like Godiva, holding a bouquet of lilies in my hand of making and destroying; garlands of thorned roses were my only shields. I did not go on hands and knees, though custom and past passion plays demanded it; I walked, brazen and curious, braving the sharp stained glass with my eyes. And I was pierced for it. The knight with his lance rode me and claimed me as his palfrey; his squires anointed my flesh with streaks of stained glass until I was no more than a figure of glass in a medieval window. Such is the penance for pride when one stands before the altar of sacrificing. Yet I walked on, eyes daring, feet striding, flowers dangling like broken manacles, until I stood before my lord and master and proclaimed with one sharp vorcel cry my single vowel. "I am I," I cried, crying "I" - until with a shriek, the walls fell down in so much stone and shattered glass.
