EROS

Artistic renditions of cherubic

        Cupid betray the reality,
Though the pointed-tipped missile

        He hurls is appropriate symbol.
No child-like, innocent spirit is this.
        He is bless'ed demon and cunning angel.
Sappho's bittersweet Eros. 
        God who launches ache and delight
With sublime and brutal accuracy.

Desire pierces through this space between,
        Violent in its surprising spasms.
They come, as in labor,
        These sharp attacks in the belly.
Plato's locus of longing.
        But what is created here, is no mere human child.
It is the birthing of an empty place.
        Not known before.
A new void; a gaping, stunning Hole.

Disturbing discovery.
         This absence of you. It is creative.
Brought into being
         Is a deep fissure within myself.
What filled this space before?
         I fall into a beautiful madness.
Into this nothing-place within,
        Emptiness most alive,
Longing to be filled.

Unattainable object of appetite.
        Sweet torture of expectation.
Pleasure clings to memory as a promise.
         I ride on the wings of Eros,

Visit the breath of your mouth.
         Tremble in the cup of your hand.
I am propelled into thin air
         Through time and space.

It is incomplete agony.
        Having and not having at once.
Like the search for knowledge, or God.
        You come in glimpses and hints; flashes of imagery.
I hold rain in my hand.
        It is fleeting possession.
I make love to these words and send them
       On a bittersweet journey
Through pleasure and pain.
       They seek the heart of their object.

In a frantic quest they reach you at last,

        And as you hold them in your hand,
My own soul is found. And put by your gate.