Love III

There was,

was a point when

I no longer shied

from an incommensurable fact.

The woman who like

the God of Jonathan

Edwards dangled me over the

Pit with a thin, thin thread,

Pit of fire and brimstone,

capriciously suspended

by a loving angry God he

described as a malevolent

spider I would never my-

self speak so but the parallel

seems suitable because he

(Edwards) praised dark

judgement, fear, and Puritan

moral ligature and poured con-

tempt— harsh judgement and

fear, on; left his listeners, in;

torment, weeping and begging,

for Mercy. A state of desperation

teasing his fearful listeners, yes

weeping miserable wretched;

not altogether unlike a state in

which I was suspended for the—

better? part of five years and even

yet I am in awe of what she was

able to sustain for so long:

misery abject desperate never

more than a rare smile yet I

her supplicant remained locked

outside finding what

comfort I could, alone always

never other because she

made clear my abject

worthless state, obstacle

to everything she planned

just like God.

And, so, it was.

Clearly insane, Me? She?

Me, to endure, cling, hope.

Wrong. Wrong, Wrong. No

other possible conclusion. But

all the while, unimagined, un-

suspected in sinister darkness

nourished by antagonism and

bottomless fire and brim-

stone contempt fed by loss

despair and an end of hope the

End and Final Judgement,

thank Heaven; not hers.