To say it, weakens it. It feels soothing to hear it.
The days frame sentiments, purple skies, marooned horizons.
And Love made Artist.
With deepness of credulity—with open senses, bled unto empty, a carcass.
In hearing those eyes, longing for obedience, a soul in abeyance, near inert at moments.
And Love made Wizard.
If to see three shadows, which would you speak to?
To say it, weakens it. It feels good to hear it.
In listening so often, something isn’t heard.
In an anniversary, someone isn’t celebrating. Acute reality, and Love made Warlock.
To adore by creation, those smiles, such an incarnate spirit.
A soul was smitten; finding reciprocity; they do well together.
They say it often, it finds power, it feels good to say it.
