i pray in time, friend,
that this you understand,
that it has to be my sweetest displeasure
and yet my most unjust liberty
to tell you that every quiet passing
along a young and hopeful causeway
was almost gladly spent finding,
some how or another . . .
every day new to discover you over and again,
so to drink in with haste the strange august nectar
and draw into my lungs the sovereign aura
that drift from your autumn eyes.
how to hold and to press gently your hands
just a moment more between mine in a way
that kisses with, in consummate balance,
a firm allowance and a free imperative.
how to mold, to sculpt, to shape
my habitual pining over your subtle forms
into an simple, ever green, professant blessing
a splendid, deep down, ours religion.
how to capture your innocent stargaze
in the longing embrace of my own
so that for one moment so perfectly brief
we were one great blossoming cosmos.
how to be one who aligns our beating royal suns
who calms our winters and ignites our summers
who dances and dies in the storms and the fires
that splash from your glimmering eyes.
how to be whom you adore until the requiem day
when our confessional ******* swell and crash in the cascading sand
to the sonorous beat of a final splendid rapturous breathtaking harmonious
Yes.
as fury and ecstasy ripple and bound
in our lush fantastical burial ground.
as our progenies daydream of kingdoms to come
and sing with an amorous hymn on their tongues.
yes, and so it has been now for days and for tides
that my latent creations in whatever measures
those passions, when sparked and then quenched in an instant
are no more or less than my sweetest displeasures.
This one was inspired in part by Bon Iver's cover of "I Can't Make You Love Me," in part by Damien Rice's "Cannonball," and in part by a very dear friend.