Her Veils are White as Snow

98

My resurrection is a sensitive process
Like a bee-line of women, as symbols
Of the remuneration of my destiny
I want their food, their shelter

Their fragrance, not as significant
Of what I might hoard, or plunder
But of a banquet of trade
That I might have something enriching to offer

O blasphemy is love’s ecstatic fire
I am reckless with the reality of it
Smoothing and apple-green
What in their skin could possibly redeem me?

It’s an illusion of the material world
I’m sure of it, flowers on the water
Lotus bud in the air, I stare past mirrors & windows
Back to nature, back to God

I am clothed in sensual clothing
My resurrection is a taboo exploration
Like a woman’s body that has never been fondled properly.

Photography Credits: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Youthful-heart-373919675

3 thoughts on “Her Veils are White as Snow

  1. I like these sad lines:
    “An invisible palm at the edge of space”
    “Life is a foreign song today”
    then your redemption on the next poem:
    “Back to nature, back to God”

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