Sanctuary

No one stands
for truth anymore.
Cowards retreat
into their shells—

but I—
I am a snail
without a shell.
A lamb,
sweetest meat,
without fang,
without claw.

I am condemned
to the brutality
of your gaze,
to your indifference
toward what is right.

There is no soulmate.
We dig for her
in the wrong ditches—
among instruments,
ballpens,
plastic affections.

But she—
she will never trust us,
not until
we lose our lust
for every other woman.

Each itch
betrays her.
Every hunger
a scratch
against the sanctuary
of her presence.

A root must dive—
deep into filth,
into grief,
into shadow—
before it can rise,
unfolding
its peacock plume
of love
into the light.