Shrouds

To my blind princess I tell no lies
for she has no inkling
of how beautiful I look
and what a nice guy I am
so we have no pact
as to the continuation of such an illusion.

I keep her from my friends
and my other lovers
who love me for my beauty
and my brilliance.

When I speak to her I speak low
I whisper through the shrouds
of my shameful sadness;
my words are brittle and disorganized,
in their ugliness they are pure.

My blind and scarred priestess
I defile and I cleanse
with the broken parts of my spirit
I cannot bear to love
while in fear I hold the others to the light;
together we know only darkness.

In my blind lady I seek neither
pleasure nor pain,
only solace in the river of her love.

Her love she gives freely,
compassionately, in a way I don't deserve,
in a way I need desperately,
in a way I've never myself given.

I wait for her to heal me.
If she can love me
for my ugliness...
can't I?