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My heart is warm and my love is not a sin
my love is blessing that makes the flowers grow
and lifts life from the ground
my love is a warm breeze
and I cannot go on thinking my love destroys
or that it has got a bad scent

My love is profound and above all it is a gift
tender and gentle
lovingly finding spring even in winter
some part of me waits “ for what?” I ask
I think back to the night I saw you
you were good on luck
work was good and you were busy
too busy to chat,
too busy full of good luck to make room

I thought it was good so I smiled and sat silently waited for you there.

But when you came you sat across the table as far as you could possibly get from me
too busy in thought you didn’t even really say a word

Then I felt like an inconvenience like a pole people moved around
so I left

I came too far
and I gambled too much on you
jumped off the cliff thinking your love would be a net

I left that day feeling half dead.
I couldn’t feel my myself. Couldn’t cry for the next few days. I just wanted it to be a horrible nightmare. A bad joke.

So I ask that part me “ what are you waiting for” is it the punch line ?
And it tells me “ I am waiting for my love”
and I just cry...
everything is spoken into existence
life begets life they say
and so I wonder what part of life dram me into existence
called me forth from the womb of imagination
who saw me before i was someone
and called a person like I onto this earth
all the tools are here in this shed of a chest
i need just grab one
There is just this calm underlying love that slowly unfolds and eats up the fear

and so I write you
keeping it short
keeping my heat away  
trying to at least salvage friendship
because it care for you
and I hope you were right about time

so far it doesn’t seems to be lending a hand
I just accept that I must really just love you
and well that’s where I’m at for now
sometimes if you are really still
–and your limbs are branches–
–and your breath is the wind–
you can feel the earth turn.
I gather the riveting shards of glass
that have pounced like garden cats at the sight of a moth
when cracked by the simple act of you
pulling your hand away
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