In my nomadism,
sometimes hedonist
and often stoical,
weed took over
my chest.
In the aridity of my soul
weed turned into
dry, sharp leaves
stabbing my heart,
wounded, I refused to succumb.
Your eyes, crystals
and your heart, the sun
have consumed my weed
my chest is burning, the fire
forges something new within:
A precious stone shines right
where there once was
a bleeding and undone muscle,
out of infinite pain
there comes forth a strange redemption.

10-19-05