poem

Needing the sensation
of being open once more
wanting to feel
layers peeled back
inspected in the light
the tiny spark of
passion to be bellowed
into consuming flame
once more
but this, I know, is folly
steady on, sweet, steady on
not all love can be new
not every passion
is a devourer
not every flame is
destruction.
instability.
waste,
in the end.

In its stead I shelter
a constant warmth
and glowing certainty
he in return
is my shelter,
protection from
lonely Winter's kiss.
blindness recovering
he guides through
the forrests deep
into the shades of death
passing beyond to
thorny wilderness
I shall have no fear,
for He is a light unto me.