I am like a heroin addict
In my longing for a sublime state
For that ground of conscious nothing
Where the Rose ever blooms.
O’ the friend
Has done me a great favor,
And has so thoroughly ruined my life.
What else would you expect,
Seeing what God would do?
Out of the ashes of this broken frame,
There is a noble rising son pining for death;
Since we first met, beloved, I have become a
Foreigner to every world except that one
In which there is only you or me.
Now that the heart has held that which can
Never be touched, my subsistence is a blessed
And from that I cry for more loneliness.
© Tyrel Long
June 15, 2009