if I
show love, I receive her nature while I need to confess my love. as stranded
strangers to meet along a highway, as so afraid of being alone. we might know
with clarity but afterward certainty or a kiss is withheld. repacked for
success or rethreaded for resilience to embark upon a wolf’s journey. a cry in
wilderness a voice in chains a miracle desires justice. beauty triggers
feelings, as rough around edges, sweet soft survival. emotion with webs or
hearts by gossamer at some element remote to its observer. so cavalier, or
indifferent, with entrails entrapped. our rising sun upon a sleepless night to
have held a feeling until morning. we say love is marvelous. we never talk to
its nausea. as souls confessing only romance.
if I show love, I receive her nature
while I need to confess my love. so strange on islands right in our quarters.
as city folk, running or rummaging, at cake with cookies with ice cream. such
tasty crumpets so many caves in silence or so gorgeous it’s hard to receive.
life makes us in ways, so touched, so often, by winds of indecency. a soul as a
friend as seriously into safety so accustomed to coming to your rescue. a
person to love or adore or salute with integrity.
if I love you, I should know first
but often it’s pointed out. as we see love where it pops up, but is love something
aside from attributes? we know love is invisible, basic root of livingness, as
described with great effort. this will sustain us. this will carry us. this
will become fate and faith.
if I may dote over
eyes shimmering in darkness over hope filled kisses. to have died a week into
charms as a foolish man grieving his funeral. some museum in me such art in me,
debating Raphaelites—or listening to Carmelites at some sepulcher or tomb or
wounds such fresh bleeding. to acclimate into sunshine assured in 5 piercings
while mercy is on a helpline. those feelings are unsteady too fierce while
unforced—to bake midday or assign life to our afternoon such sweet nectar at
nightfall. if to live—I need you—but life is unpredictable. I might raise my
voice at a critical moment, where another was quite kind. it’s fragile this
fame those scars our dreams—as souls fettered or seesaw existence, to again
feel remorse.
