My Heart is a labyrinth.
There are many candles
and many places full of joy.
There are also places full of tears.
Those places could take your Heart, dear one
and tear it asunder, until there was nothing left.
I taste ashes when I speak
of those times, about my past
of tears unshed and screams unbidden–
and you know, enough–not to speak of it
–not to ask when your God wakes shaking from nightmares–
not to ask what I saw–you know just–to hold me–“when the nights
are dark/and when the air is still but for our breathing.”*
There are those who would take my past–and make it
a play, a legend, a ‘moral lesson,’ that
“this is what happens, when a god goes his own way.
He becomes darkness, he becomes Dark.”
But I am not darkness. Not at all–at least
not the way you mortals view it.
(And what glamour is there, in darkness
in being perceived as frightening?)
Wounds are not badges to be earned, dear one.
The darkest rooms of my Heart are not illuminating.
But rather, they are places even I do not wish to go
simply for my own safety (and, perhaps, sanity as well.)
Yet here in my shaking hands is a key; I will tell you the stories,
if you wish it. All I ask, is that you be gentle with my Heart
that you walk softly, and know when to step back.
I gave you my Heart time and again in stories,
it is time you had all of it, my Lord.
Beyond time for openness, of the Labyrinth of my Heart.
*He’s referencing this poem I wrote