Long
to love, and love to life. A lily is a breath, ever taken
in
private, a public kindness; to endear self, even to pick
up
pain, where love justifies friendship. I’m maybe there,
pouring
a kettle, feeling a canticle. How did it happen; to
thirst
forbidden fountains? “It’s not you; but the God you
live.”
I’m keen to this, preferring to commune long-distance.
It’s
ever ethereal, touched by science, mourning undulations.
A
forest is mystique, captured in perception, as metaphorical
as
love. How has a soul quaked, sanding a brain, a hundred
pages
into Scripture? Its kiln and wraith, eternal and
fleeting,
a fifty/fifty mixture. Such for cravings, something
carnal,
infused by years of more. It was even our light,
shared
with life, studying a lovelock. Our reservoir, so
impartial,
cleaving to a motive. We no longer live, fully alive,
feeling
anguish. We live instead, mixed with pain, and filled
with
warmth. I love you becomes Spirit, where Abigail revs
a
nation.
