I thought you said, you were a loner;
I thought you said, you were the one;
I thought your friends called you a stoner;
I thought you didn’t care, about anyone.
I thought your Mother had said, you were ugly;
I thought your Father had said, you were lame;
I thought your sisters had called you monster;
I thought you had murdered, and you were ashamed.
And what do I see within me,
working for your own sense of pride?
Your patience, it’s infectious;
you’ve never had, anything to hide.
What then is it that deprives me,
of my meandering sense of shame?
Is it your beauty? Is it your kindness?
Is it the fact that you even came?
If I could but just, unadorn you;
if you could but just see me, without my shroud;
if I could just measure, and please, and adore you;
if I could still worry, and not be proud.
And yet, your steely gaze of wonder
requires that its strength be subsumed;
nothing’s more dangerous than contagion;
nothing’s more evil, than the open wound.
From "Buddha's Broken Fingernail," by Daniel Viragh.