Oil of the Burning Ones

A poem of costly intimacy

Oil does not form in comfort.
It forms where desire refuses to die.
It forms in the hidden hours
when no one sees
and no one applauds.

It is squeezed from surrender.
Pressed from tears.
Distilled through devotion no audience can reward.

Those who burn
paid a price for the flame.
Their glow is costly.
Their shine came from secret yeses
no one will ever know.

Oil is intimacy
made visible.
It is the fragrance of those
who stayed awake
when others chose sleep.

That is why their fire is pure.
It was purchased.

Joe Restman, Eternal Witness of the Lamb.