The Feast of Ruin

We craft our delicate intentions singing--

Rejoicing in the purity of our distilled Love.

Wrapping the warm glow carefully

In perfumed cloth.

We lose ourselves in the gleeful abandon

Of our empty charity.

And laying ourselves down

As we lay also the long traveled package,

We should ask for our heads

To be severed.

For when Beloved tramples our precious gift

Or tears it to ribbons

It is our gratuity.

For we know that when we give

The gift of our Love,

And find ourselves resentful

Of the violence it is shown,

We expose our charity

For the sliver of desire

Hidden in it.

Trample my Love, dear One!

And in doing so

Invite me to the Feast of Ruin!