The Gift

I shut the door on love
I turned her away
told her in no uncertain terms
all her bewitching promises
of dripping honeycombs
fruit scented wines
and rain soaked deserts
were nothing but lies
when all she had to give
was a wound oozing crimson
burning salt of tears
and unending parchedness

I shut the door on love
and my poem died
sweet companion of my soul
it was then I found
she had been birthed
from that very wound`
she had thrived on tears
that had risen from
my deepest thirst
I knew then what
was the precious gift
love had given me
wrapped in torment

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