A jaded history haunts unconsciously.
Fragmented regrets surface to this state of mind,
unhealthily.
But then you overcome me.
you blow my balloon up with relentless joy till it pops
and I can’t even function.
The wetness refuses to halt its rage against my heart’s window.
Though, this is irrelevancy.
My state of faith, so sealed as an envelope.
~
I am so sealed as an envelope.
With the good will in my heart, encompassing,
and the good name on my tongue, spreading
I can do no wrong.
You set the seal there.
You sent it here.
The envelope contains this undeniable love.
But it is not restrained.
No.
It permeates it, through and through
till the oil is spread all about the table,
and drips off the sides, anointing.
The seal sets in the Spirit.
I can do no wrong.
I am not under the law, bound by shackles,
but rather your agape
makes it bubble.
~
The story turns the dial.
The resonance heats the burner.
And your love boils.
The humble ***,
who attempts to brag in her shininess,
is but a homely utensil.
Though ***, need you not be perfect.
There are none now without dents.
They are still usable, still loved.
You see, when the water boils, the metal melts.
In another realm, it is liquid.
Chunks of dirt, bits of dust
swim up to breathe.
And breathe they will,
but it will be their last breath,
at the hand of the sweaty hand,
at the hand of the author.
~
For this story to unfold,
to send the fragments to the ocean floor,
to inflate the balloon,
the ***
acknowledges its dents,
knows the seal is the wormhole to the forge,
submits to the blacksmith, and
doesn't refuse the heat.
And then the *** so pure
becomes one with the oil, seal, and blacksmith.