Firethorn's Den

A Gown Sewn of Sky

In the open letter to Eros:

Last summer when the heat declined until it hit the base of nothingness, I confided in you about love that courted me with fumes and flames, always rising, never dismissing. In waiting for my senses to reconcile with one another, I learned to emulate the fluidity of a breeze. It wasn't the methodology that got me down; rather, it was the failure to recognize the significance of moments, fragile as wafer-thin clouds that can easily be dissipated by just a simple sigh.

I am now confused by the sun, the way it mourns away the minutes as if burning bright was not part of its intents: to be worshipped, to be looked away for fear. Everywhere I look, I see grieves: blue breaths of forget-me-nots in the garden, climbing roses with partly burnt tips, dry dirt between carpets of green grass. It is as though the earth has just been pushed to its limits. I feel compelled to walk right out of the earth so that I can collapse in on myself to create a supernova for stargazers to wonder about.

Tonight, I realize I should surrender myself to you. I cannot hold my stubbornness intact any longer, not when my restlessness relentlessly stabs at the folds of my clothing, wanting to slake its own hunger (as if I didn't feel the same way.)

You knew this day would come for you have raised your bow with the arrow poised threateningly behind the taut string. You portray the most dangerous god of all; it is why I have been fixed on sidestepping the issue, to avoid having to encounter the moment.

In this instant, although the thought of being beat down by love does not sit well with me but here I am, in a gown sewn of sky, soft and flowing with the ease of a breeze...

© 11/28/03

Graphics and page disign by Bimsan

This page is hosted by Tripod