The Gingerbread Cinder Path

Tell me to run

and to turn away,
and burn my wing-tips
when you touch me in faith,
amongst fairies and sugar and forest flames
I have nothing to give you, to want, or to take,
but beauty now and
honest grace, in our houses of straw…
…speak,
and my offers hide nothing,
inside me,
only pleasure and fire, misdirection and guidance,
no veils, and no lies, or no time-fading guise that will
bring any other truth out…
I can tell you only, as I see without
doubt, without pause,
or regret,
there is another way
yet, to learn how much softer and tender
to tread;
that a path of cinders and gingerbread
can be forged
from torturous, bewildered nail-beds, through thorns
that have scratched
before…
pull open all my doors and number them,
one to ten…
a treasure lies, each time, within,
wrapped and ribboned, for taking and given, with a
skyward gasp;
as nails and tongues and lips would
stroke glass and all manner of precious
things, …and so I caress and swallow all venom
that stings, even so, and leaves its scars,
and wonder just how far you will
follow if I
drop breadcrumbs
that lead to the stars?