The day I lost the charade

I remember when love
used to be a charade:
It was a card we played
when the chips were down.
I remember when love
was that thing longed for
above all other things;
A thing once had,
would redeem all.
It was a kind of dream
lullying the lonely to sleep;
a sheild from the pain
of unshared aspirations,
an aspiration of a spectral
city hovering high-but
not too high-in the clouds.
It was a great, white curtain
blocking from our view
of the gaping hole drilled
through the world's heart
and the heart of every man.

The day I lost the charade,
I knew that love was a kind of death,
and I knew that death
was the only way to live.

Love is not the expectance
of a gift coming on silver wings
from a gold horizon.
It is not the charging heartbeat
in two lovers' bosems.
No, love is a kind of death,
the kind we must die every day,
when we realize that all the things
we most long for we must
throw away before we can have.
Love is not a thing to collect
in a box, the crown jewel
among our treasures.
Seize it, and it withers in our grasp,
Fly our flag upon it, and it rebels,
love only it, and it hates you.
No, love is a kind of death;
a trail of tears and blood,
the kind someone made
long ago in a muddy street
under the weight of his own
wooden cross.

The day I lost the charade,
I knew that love was a kind of death,
and knowing it, my life began.



Then Jesus said to his disciples, "If anyone desires to come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me. For whoever desires to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.

Matthew 16:24-25