Life is rhythmic, full of patterns. Life requires measures. Life is often a tad bit uncomfortable, just enough to register on a radar. And love might avert parts: they do return. Those rushing hertz; those with cadence—Lord be good! Our intentions: those are roots. By radiant favor, to imagine sunshine, unclear of a benighted glint. If adoring were concretized; if it was enough; as living aloof from self; not at all an original thought. It comes out of analyzing routine, in asking: “What are we doing?” as in on a daily basis. And Love is every thought, every woman, in sharing wings, in a tender touch, radical alienation, rubies and diamonds, one morning kiss. To give all one might engender; to ask all one might understand, in affection, being close to an estranged state. In keeping good faith, in admiring at face value, in ignoring self-concerns, to acknowledge goodness. A soul to her wedding. A man to his bride. Such unbridled passion. In speaking about dungeons, they were not defined. Those inner thoughts; those vivid visions; occasioned to a white lie, if to keep perception rounded—a rounded ring. If to speak about a dungeon, to censor parts of an aforesaid routine, to truly examine religion … not by critical denouncement, not by credulous acceptance … to find a balance … this is war. To jog through an ethical conundrum, to understand what ought, denotes. Indeed, one greater: What does forgiveness look like? The parents; the husband or wife; the priest. In wrestling with bigger questions. With sensing life, around us. In to participate—to come to an understanding which is inclusive, critical, and decent.
