Blaze Of Glory - Poem by Michael Monroe
Love is white light that burns with fiery heaviness,
disintegrating gray corruption with laser focus.
Forced out of its carefully placed walls of lace,
it destroys with natural, unrelenting intensity
like a hurricane ocean of fiery lava,
surging infinitely with lusty ferocity.
Focused, it heals with the delicate hands of saints
and moves imposing mountains as if they were feathers.
Love paints vivid brushstrokes of orange truth
across the dull, gray canvas of deception.
It shines a flashlight on dreary skeletons hiding
in the dusty closet of desperate desire,
where cobwebs hang like ancient curtains
hiding the fiery core of painful greed.
Want is shriveled into broken midnight dreams
that give way to the shining reality of peace.
Selfishness evaporates in the heavenly air
high above the decaying starlit sky.
A man sees love when he sees beauty in a woman;
the soft curves of her body and her long, wavy hair
ignite an immediate response like flicking a lighter.
In slow motion we see the child-bearing hips,
the soft, peaceful eyes, and the enveloping smile.
We see the atomic bond of a mother and child
when she sees the world in her baby’s innocent eyes.
This bond is twisted and warped into an intensely temporary lust
that burns into dusty ashes
that blow away into the oblivion of eternity.
Love shines out with starlight glory,
spreading like a pink flower blossoming
outward into the world and spreading softly
with peaceful womb-like compassion
until we pull it inward with frightened selfishness,
afraid that it will flow away from us and into the ether.
We close it away into dungeon darkness,
hoping to preserve it and it quickly dissipates.
It sinks away from the rest of itself
and disappears into the dark depths of painful loneliness.
Love is a typewriter in the hands of monkeys.
Maybe if six-billion people are brushed by love,
at least one will end up writing the Gettysburg Address;
a selfless leap into a guilt-freeing ocean.
Most will produce meaningless dribble,
trying their whole lives to make sense out of complex scribbles.
Some of us are good at convincing others of our wisdom
as we pull the wool over our own eyes.
Love leaps and we desperately try to catch it,
touching it for split seconds in our tired lives,
brushes of cashmere in the darkness,
as we close our eyes, trying to remember the pleasure.
It was gone before it began
as our minds twist and turn it into our own image,
a far cry from the infinite glory it had once been,
for we ourselves are only dream-like images,
and we’ve broken ourselves after constant leaps
into the concrete abyss of knowledge.
Love is selfless sacrifice hiding bashfully backstage,
not selfish lust dancing in front of the velvet curtain
as our blood boils with the desires of deadly candy
which are thinly veiled with deceptive beauty,
rotting through our skin like a dull cancer
as our hearts fade away into the distance behind us,
arms reaching out and disappearing into the wind
as lonely teardrops form the murky river we swim in,
painfully trying to stay afloat in the deep blue.
Love is a mother giving herself to her newborn,
working day and night so he can have a bottle to drink from.
It’s a person forgiving another for stomping on their pride.
Love is a man joyfully dropping gold with each step
so the poor can pick it up as he goes,
and use it to feed the hungry and heal the sick.
It’s a king giving his own life so his subjects can live.
Love is God,
which is why we have so much trouble understanding.
Love snakes through the concrete city,
past broken buildings bleeding urine and hard liquor,
through cracks between rotting wooden boards
that cover tired, broken crack house windows,
hiding the mind-blazed squatters within.
It finds every weary bum lying on every paint-peeling bench,
moves through every crevasse and every desert.
It doesn’t skip anyone in its eternal vigilance
Love cries tears of guilt that flow over stone hearts,
dripping away from minds closed like dams,
keeping it from irrigating our decaying spirits.
Love pours into gutters to drain back to the source
as the guiltless die in heart-pounding pleasure.
They turn their backs on answers and embrace illusions,
their arms passing through nothing and turning back on themselves
as they slowly and unknowingly strangle themselves,
choking their own lives away and blaming God.
Love could solve all of the world’s problems with a lightning flash.
It could wash them away like a mop washing away grime,
but the grime looks like cotton candy beauty
and we’re the janitors holding the mops.
Love shines back from a peaceful, distant future
that would be here if we would search through the spiraling night,
giving up the selfish realities of this world
to embrace our selfless dreams.
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Michael Monroe's Other Poems
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You