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Jun 2014
i lost her by the wine press
where the vine grows and the foxes are troublesome
she was like the morning droplets in the green of the earth
my reasons for producing fruits
the labor of my fingers and the fruits of that labor
the melody of the birds the rhythm in which the clouds rained
the finality of my smile the reason in which i thunk on the future
and so we made love against the wine press in kisses and laughter
in short silences and silent happenings between us we made love
but she was called away from our arrangement our secret had been left alone
with me alone and i longed for her lungs to breathe her blessed presence
her laugh that stopped all indulgence in what was surrounding me for my eyes had been fixed
for have i misplaced my pearls no rather my soul my hope in what i die
also in what i would live for. for now this day the earth floods with my voice and the forsaken reply of another. the sad man in me now new in every thought of
her that re abounds this heart to cleave and cleave and cleave it shall until my salvation from God turn my head i have new love better wine then man
i thirst of lovers wine i hunger for the milk of heaven. after then i realize now that she was the key in which the doors are open to see what would lead me to explore what is more than eyes and soul's expectations. a new love that is indeed pure. oh but her eyes oh but heaven's gaze. with her i would amount to but only glory that doubles as our rags to wrap one flesh we would've been one
but then that would have left no choice but to be separated by that which is death. all the wonderful things about the stars that burn for ever and we share a place in our would tombs decaying our bodies oh but if i were to leave her now and return with the gospel of Christ we could live eternally and my love would be ever present all the more
i dance in my thoughts because i sat in regret
it was divine the plan to win her back only this time not for me but for the love of God. and now i will search for her at her mothers home, life now different and not so young and adolescent.
Bruce Anthony Shelton
Written by
Bruce Anthony Shelton  Detroit
(Detroit)   
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