What part of it mattered, Sir Universe?
What part of it shifted your dust any closer to mine?
What particles of us loved any more or lied any less when we looked in the mirror each day?
What caused us to trifle with Truth?
Frozen days are coming.
Darkened days, at full throttle, now.
What pieces of our hearts remain to force the thaw?
What sadness, were we to be, or not to be, content with the cold.
I have been to lavender fields on what you might call
“A great day.”
Oh that the flowers would have told me,
“Love buds not with him — come fast away!”
He’ll not pray that you sit
He’ll not fight the good fight
He’ll not be by your side ‘til the end
You’re the bride and the groom
You’re your own epic bloom
You’re your bravest and loving best friend
What if I befriended time
Then took its outstretched hand
Separation was no more
Despite life’s shifting sand
Daytime, nighttime were as one
Without the fear of loss
Silver seconds, yearnless years
And age no bridge to cross
I beckon thee to join with me
In unrelenting drive
To put away some thought of death
To embrace what’s alive
Each minute is a golden hour
Each breath a pulsar day
When time gives us its outstretched hand
We must not look away
She is not He
Nor an It or an If
She is Where It’s At, Has Always Been, and Forever More Will Be
Where If Goes To Become
She is Where He Needs To Be Attending To
She Really Is
She Is Peaches and Mittens
August Fire, Mountain Avalanche
She Is Baseball and Criminal
There’s no more Not Knowing Such Love
She Is Leading Me
Do not blame the Sun
Do not blame the scorpion
Blame the tender skin
I bemoan and decry
No one — absolutely no one
Whether in writing, or whether verbally
Neither by smoke-signal, ancient code, pony-express, street sign, Social, nor any other means of communication or Media
Except Shakespeare, himself
Provided instruction on the following:
Seeing the writing on the wall;
Surviving the sudden, unspoken goodbye;
Understanding in any way, shape, or form, heartbreak;
Avoiding the subsequent self-loathing;
Navigating the wrong kinds of depths, whilst working to resurface;
The exact location where one may file a writ of replevin to retrieve back their spirit — unshattered, whole, good as new — and perhaps their house key, as well; and,
Walking with confidence therewith.
“Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin, as self-neglecting.”
Our colors, like water…like oxygen…work well together…like art from artists, were we to work in earnest.
What say you, America — will we work on love, on great…’fore the hour becomes late?
Original Thought Credit:
“…the greatest of these is love.” -1 Corinthians 13:13
“When America ceases to be good, she will cease to be great.” -Alexis de Tocqueville
Were not good
Would see you’re
Clutter from time to time
Our difficult workdays
For you, were too much
Brass rings collected
Our non-fictitious Florin acquired
Love, had you’d let it
For me, these were enough