A Curse

A blessing's simple, happens every day
and consequently weightless. No one minds
the spells of blessings getting in their way
or troubles to undo them or their kind
impotent wishes. When I wish to bind
you to your higher self I use a curse
a geas, since that term seems so much for the worse,

But merely stronger – curse is consequence
and threat, but can be used for bad or good
and in it's strength a blessing lacks, and sense
to then inspire you toward what you should
have already done, or what you would
do, given inspiration, penalty
and so I'm comfortable refusing now to set you free

from this: disguised blessing: may you be
drawn to the lotus, as you once had been
before it snapped you short and violently
dismantled your desire to hurry in
and heal that wound. All tortured with her sin
and fear she wounded you in turn
then stood by, impotent, to watch your crash and burn.

So now I tempt you back the only way
I know, by giving you my own desire
unfilled, and so much longer gone away
than the famine most men feel. I give you fire
in your belly for the press, and risk the dire
consequences of this spell, the three-fold tide
of angry hunger into which I always ride.

So then: flowers, equal in their range
and mystery, their lack of helpful speech
how similarly dark, demanding, strange
they are, how much to learn, how much to teach
and how in even basic detail, each
is perfectly unique, and rich, and wrong
and though you study till you die, it's not too long

to learn each mystery of breed and shade
predict one, lose the next, and learn again
that in each flower, goddess gold is made
to feed the souls and serpents of the men
Unlearn, and learn, and find it all again
and know that only madness could inspire
you to face inscrutable, demanding serpent fire

Madness, I tell you, and nothing more or less
could make you brave enough for those insane
demands, those arbitrary wounds and helplessness
necessitates some other kind of brain
than rational, to sign on for the reign
of terror that is the love of that dark gate
that makes you stand, and love, and hurt, and weep, and hate

and yet always return. That love is blind
more sightless than any other, and less right
yet off you go to dig around and find
the gold fruit that sometimes fills a random night
with blessings, mysteries both dark and bright.
I give this to you from my own cursed dreams
as wrong and right, as stupid and as godly as it seems.