IT was a simple gift--
yet one so reluctantly given.
My Polar Bear rage
and icicle heart...
Yet it was so innocently and truthfully offered,
like the tobacco of Ancient Ceremonies long forgotten.
I cannot yeild the fruit of pastures unseen,
and I cannot taste what isn't real.
But there was a certain labour to it--
a sweating, seething reality
that bit into my side like a Great White Shark.
(after said gift was given...)
Swallowing chuncks of muscle, along with bits of bone...
These parts; all mine.
Yet what of you, have I?
To show for this unforseen attack...
a memory of your body twisted around mine,
just as your teeth sunk in.
Sandpaper shark skin , rug-burning me.
and though I've fought against the pain,
like some valiant martyr of Christiandom...
I could not conquer it.
I won only battles--
and this is war.
Now that you've chewed me up
and spit me out, I have to ask
(even sarcastically)
How did I taste?
Remember it well, fool hardy fish-demon.
Forgetful-Carelesser of all things Sacred.
For it will remind you
in indigestion later...
That only fools fall in love,
and what goes around
comes back again full force.
And the images of another, bigger, brighter shark
taking little bites, one at a time out of you
is a thing of unparrelled beauty...
Sick and illwilled I know,
but the truth sometimes hurts.
I hope you have a good tolerance for pain.