Love is a recondite matter.
For Her love is an abysmal lake
Of tears and unrequited adulation.
His love was once a duck
that kissed the lake top,
that skimmed the adoring water with its capricious plumage,
that tended to the lake,
and nourished by feeding on the reeds at the waters edge.

Until season changed,
Crisp air blew ripples across the lakes surface.
Yet the lake remained deep and unchanged
And the duck flew south and away
to another, more shallow pond
Remained there.
Leaving Her in want.

She no longer belongs to Herself,
But desires to acquire her souls counterpoint in him.

Her eastern waters warm with each setting night
Her depths and hopes, endless
That one day he will dive among her waves
and this time,

stay.

She begs the wind to keep at bay.

Electricity to commence the lesson
Shall we start the heart of a selfish man?
For She is the flame that will spark the love of his heart
The match that will ignite the passion
Which already lies hidden within.

She longs to take his boreal love for the Moon
That bleak, frigid, misled, infatuation he deems love
And bring it to Her summery affection;
The southern ardor of Her passion.

Her heart beats a solo nocturnal anthem
to his fleeing step,
his narrowed eyes, and lashing tongue.
With hope of an aubade
to waken his affections with the dawn
Her heart sings on.

She covets the charm of the Moon
Whose commensurate beauty is looked upon by him
With more favor than a rose from eden
Or any part of Her own.

He thinks of the moon as he falls asleep
And each day he wakes,
Weeping to see another dimple upon the moon's teasing face.
Yet as he sleeps he dreams

And never recalls
Until the lightning shakes his house
And he wakes to thoughts of Her

A match strikes not for limbo
But for tepid coruscations to warm a soul.
By assumption she is not her own.

The quintessence of a life when received--
A curio to collect dust and fissure.

What will you do
with a heart that is not your own?

The footsteps of one voice, impressions made
Upon the crown of worlds we are and not
Familiar. A voice asphyxiated now
By God’s eternal rest, the steps scrubed,
All evidence of past existence void.
The algid night warmed by sunset’s palette.
Coastland is cast aside in the gloom and cold,
Of winters bite and scratch that seeps inside.
The sands of Time and Shore joined silent by
Invisible mortar, like by magnets choice.
Frost sways and rocks above the muted town,
Then turns descending swift as kites retreat.
The waves verbosely lap along the shore,
Companion’s creased hand pulses mine with life.
My poignant awareness of being paused,
By sight of the delicate form of a
Butterfly lying in the sand so still.
Beholding her, the small shell of one life,
Whose wings so perfect, eerie and intact.
My pulsing hand held the laconic frame
Of life whose soul had fled to greater heights.
So great its beauty and so great my awe,
That felt I a vivid urge to lift mine eyes
To sky so vast, to heaven far away.