Narcissus and Goldmund

I am the heresy
inside my own cathedral.
One hand carves the law in stone;
the other turns it lyrical.

My ribs are a cage,
and still, they sing.
My blood is a chain,
and still, it runs like spring.

By day, I sit robed in silence,
a monk made of restraint;
by night, I lie open to fire,
a martyr undone by flame.

I speak the tongue of renunciation,
but sweetness gathers under mine.
I kneel before my own commandments,
then banish the self they failed to bind.

I forbid myself to near it,
yet I have arrived countless times.
I swear that I will forsake it,
yet each forsaking turns to shrine.

And with every betrayal,
I kneel more deeply still;
the farther I flee from worship,
the more devout I feel.

This is the whole of my faith:
the law my left hand engraves,
while my right, with longing,
softens every commandment
into sacred verse.