Friday, December 27, 2024

Last to be Adored

 

 

The last first step. Something different this round. What is it? It seems incomplete. (I believe souls live in the moment. Something treasured.) I’ve been in thoughts, accustomed to being human. Loving seems controversial, easy, and fulfilling. Searching the town, roaming through the countryside, easing into cities—if to plead for Love, some beloved creature. One can feel love, to explain love, to feel addled by love. Eating cranberries. Reaping what was given. Celebrating first steps. What have we given—what have we heard? So clever. So unique. Laughter across a room, familiar fire. The last introduction. Life off its edge. The precipice out in its desert. Too close not to ache. Such love as it hurts. A long gaze. Time paused. Just imagining if one could love more. Indeed; love as a topic is a go-to. Some are easy to compose about. Everything that comes with mystery—the miseries of happiness, the joys of cloudiness. To adore like winning, to feel an ache, to look over to witness occupation, souls at wealth. It would not be right if it was not mourned, worshiped, suffering upon a crucifixion. Holy passions; nimbus artistry. Such silliness, giggling in time, such a backdrop feeling, such mortality: silence, breath, sweat, intimacy. An anniversary—blessed in beliefs, supported in voyage, pausing in thoughts.  

Last to be Adored

    The last first step. Something different this round. What is it? It seems incomplete. (I believe souls live in the moment. Something tre...