WHEN HEALING GETS WOUNDED

darkness to darkness, light to light,
tear out offending eyes to find unconscious sight,
go into the pain and flames from sighs of pure bliss
but be sure to close those sightless eyes before that first kiss.

our disaster manifests from dis-aster, a separation from the stars,
where solitary deep intimacies form around shape-shifting scars,
we live life as a false memory projected from a tenacious but specious personality
yet nothing else matters but healing, not even the effects from invasive raw carnality.

the revelation snake in the squirming baby simply has to be fake
for how much endless hellish healing can one person take?
the old wizard in the forest, the young witch in the woods,
the holier-than-thou devil in our soul, they’re all misunderstood,

a brittle dominatrix daemon casting spells with omnipotent power
hides in the walled garden with magic stolen from the priapic tower,
she says to the world go forth and lie boldly for God’s mercy is boundless
and accept your creative inflations for all else is groundless

while Mistress Adhedonia, stern goddess of numb surrender,
demands our practiced disassociation be so loving and tender.
shame on you, can’t you see how your reactions to love’s pain 

only hurt the one you love most?

wake up - your feelings are delusional phantoms chasing mischievous ghosts,

be on notice, love’s latest ultimatum is facing you down,
your response better be certain, like the sanctified color of a proper wedding gown,
for no where is it truthfully written that life will be anything, no, nothing at all
and trauma is just a word people use instead of saying ‘close call’

for where we are and what this is doesn’t get any nearer to open expression
than the aching swirl that envelops you when entertaining your depression,
there is no where else to go, there is no way out from the transcendental bleakness
for an inner self that doesn’t comprehend why what it knows is a sickness.

what happens when the relational need to heal yourself
presents the looming prospect of not being you if you do
but the existential need not to heal is deemed stubborn and heartless?

light to light, darkness to darkness,
have blind faith in the process oh sightless one,
there can be no other kind of faith for you now,
what has happened to you is done,

a finality as hopelessly vacant 

as idealism’s first and most egregious vow.