Blood Is The Rose Poem by Linda Marie Van Tassell

The sightless question, the suspended moon -
the crack of the world is found in the heart -
the binate blessing of bountiful boon.

One moment is profane, the next is art.
A crescent moon hangs like a broken ring
and cannot hold what has been torn apart.

The black windows of soul are listening
through the lattice of shadow and the sight,
listening to the notes of each heartstring.

Dreams come drifting in the landscape of night,
in the delta of the heart and the mind;
and the dream of sin emerges in light.

I see his silhouette, though I am blind,
on the meridian of dreamy lust.
He beckons me to leave this world behind.

I am yet of the earth, not of the dust.
My breasts are supple and honeyed with milk,
and I cannot turn away though I must.

Our souls move together like burning silk
or two flames of fire that dance by design.
He offers me death; I offer him milk.

So, how can I be his or he be mine;
and how can death and life, as one, rejoice?
How can the dead and the living entwine?

He kisses me, and he leaves me no choice.
My life-breath is swallowed into the grave,
and the death dirt of the earth mutes my voice.

Between two worlds, I ride upon the wave,
desperately seeking to end my woes.
He is my master, and I am his slave.

Death is an anchor, and blood is the rose.