The Offering

The voice in the head, the thorn in the brain, 

the invisible turning. 

Again 

 and again, it goes,

  leaving

  a trickle of blood 

   a fine spidery trail of red.

Spreading along the edge of the dark river, 

under an ochre moon. Do you wonder where it comes from, 

or where it winds

as it vanishes in a haze into the unknown?

No.

Because you know.

As the jagged stones cut your toes,

and the banks rise steep, 

and fall on either side,

they lead you back 

to the voice in your head. 

See there, on the right 

beneath the rusty streetlamp - they are waiting 

for you. Your bags are packed. 

You have packed your bleeding 

heart in a bag.

 

For they are taking you to the temple of love,

for your final liberation.

They are waiting to

peel your skin, with gentle steel

and delicate skill, 

off your tender flesh.

They are waiting

for you to offer up your flaming 

heart on a silver plate,

for them to carve it up 

with a golden knife. 

For that is their labor of love.

For therein lies your peace.