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



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