Sunday's Words

What can ever bloom again,
when the power to live is missing,
dryness sows hate inside of my heart.
Fading lust, a flower made of stone, forgotten in being.
Broken of life, disintegrated of illusion.
The dread lets me feel the force of love,
to refuse my power, I hate the thirst of love.
It will judge me, judge me until death.
Sunday means flesh.