The empath is victim of her own submission
she will go hungry with your hunger
and she will feed in the ocean of your despair,
her ribs will be your ribs; your agony, hers.
She will burn with your matches and
your heat-seeking missiles in the loneliness
of your hut where you have hidden yourself
in the blindness of your heart. She will war
with your peace until you have laid down all
your weapons, until you have lain in her arms,
embraced like a prodigal child. Like the return
of a lover after the third world war.
She will bow down before your god
and show six visible marks of passion
repeating "Insallah" a thousand hundred times,
tears of blood rivering through her body into a
wasteland that you have claimed for yourself.
She recuses herself to be no one but she plays with your mind
and pulls out the tortoise and the hare, vying for
your attention, she will
lead you to the pit of your stomach
one turn of events after another,
but you'll never quite recognize her.
Not in the nights when desire
freezes your bones to dreams that never
come true. Not in the temptation of daylight
when the sun would rise in your eyes were it not
for your hands.
Not even in all that is jade and peacock,
pushing and rolling
brilliant and elegant
and grows from one tiny seed of love,
immaculate in its offering.