To You Who Have Never Died, May

You Cut Up A Thing That's Alive And Beautiful To Find Out How It's Alive And Why It's Beautiful, And Before You Know It, It's Neither Of Those Things, And You're Standing There With Blood On Your Face And Tears In Your Sight And Only The Terrible Ache Of Guilt To Show For It.

Did I Say That She Was Beautiful? I Was Wrong. Beauty Is Too Tame A Notion; It Evokes Only Faces In Magazines. A Lovely Eloquence, A Calming Symmetry; None Of That Describes This Woman’s Face. So Perhaps I Should Assume I Cannot Do It Justice With Words. Suffice It To Say That It Would Break Your Heart To See Her; And It Would Mend What Was Broken In The Same Moment; And You Would Be Twice What You’d Been Before.

I Can See In Your Eyes That There’s No Seam Of Untapped Joy Left In You. The Best Of Life Has Come And Gone. Those Days When Sudden Epiphanies Swept Over You, And You Had Visions Of The Rightness Of All Things And Of Your Place Amongst Them; They’re History. You’re In A Darker Place Now.

One Part Of Love Is Innocence One Part Of Love Is Guilt One Part The Milk That In A Sense Is Soured As Soon As Spilt One Part Of Love Is Sentiment One Part Of Love Is Lust One Part Is The Presentiment Of Our Return To Dust

Writing About The Unholy Is One Way Of Writing About What Is Sacred.