by Jonathan Hunter-Kilmer
seared conscience-deep by words, emotions
to myself and others
inspired or expired
by the people I call brothers
I sit afraid
not for my flesh
a gash will soon scar over
but anger condemnation breeds
as grass gives birth to clover
the searing that I seek
the fire pure, cleansing and living
is breath of song
Your voice and words
the Heart forever giving
Beloved, I lie and wait
although my body may be walking
intently as I cling for every moment
You are talking
You lick the welts and wounds
with flames of passion and of mercy
the more You give, my Bridegroom,
I will be forever thirsty
