Poetry contains the song’s spirit. But the working, the practical aspects of poetry occur in a secret room behind a veil.~ Leonard Cohen

This evening heart is torn apart
ripped asunder and it’s no wonder
that we have to choose between
our many selves.

The One we know has gone below
and cannot penetrate the veil.
Speaking now, someone below
inclines her head to whisper low,
“Do everything as if for show and
never ever let them know.”

The one inside, the One below,
the one that’s dressing for the show
must all turn into melting snow.
And so we see the paleness grow.
Thin-blooded, weary, sick and frail,
The Christ is mounted on a nail.

This evening heart is torn apart
by the lovers who depart.
They leave a trace of grace behind
so we cannot become the mind.

Vicki Woodyard