Though the sun fails,
exultation will prevail.
We’ve measured expectancy; we’ve mortified souls. In semblance of love, left one chasing for love. Some element in traumas; some station in glee.
In the years, facing dreams, learning realism. It disturbs chaos, it causes debris. Many habits, seductive whims, never settled into identity (not as determined by destination). Love would sing of independence. Love would find currents, sacrifice. Those first sixteen years—filled with promise, overloaded with absolutes. (I might drift in chant—aware of mechanisms—still fond of structure, community.) The beast of those delicate wildfires; the calmness of beauty; days feeling in between. An echo from a voice—striking holy images. Maybe cherubs, seraphs, maybe a piece of self never altered. A soul trying to get to that first breath, trying to connect to a feeling before the womb; seeking a source, struggling through the journey, needing aboriginal emotion; leaning into valleys, traipsing the countryside—tales of beatitudes, days filled with orison, becoming part split, part whole, such interchangeability. At a crucial point, it no longer tastes like juice (a most controversial pillar); nevertheless, it tastes like ritual, pointing at sunrise, a dear participation. To have become more of the Beloved, to have partaken of a sacred kiss, to have bathed in Spirit—finder of the Great Sky, Deliverer of the pits, Bulwark of all searching. Sound melody. Holy irritability. Flitting into moments, fraught by acceptance, to have lived for One Endearment.
