You are the bastion of mercy;
my armor I adorn
I shall know you as serenity
As silence in the storm.
The ships were leaving.
Love, as it happens,
Is not a thunders strike
But suggested on a whisper
Nor is it bound in its possession
but through those thimbled sips
And parting glances
as you head toward the door
Salt. Salt dosed with a hint of peach and hickory
or a cool wind just after Twilight.
A woman lost, spoke from the side street: "What of faith
(even those tagged on the walls of alleys or along abandoned houses)
when the hold of softened hands
are drawn apart as they inevitably are?“
But what of the guarded lust of parted lovers
Or the peace of a Sunday waking?
Lo, the whispers of things as they tremble by
are the quintessent sip
that faith could only envy.
Still drafting but constructive criticism encouraged.
Be there life after death
I shall look for you there
If not, then there too
Quoted from James Corey's Calinbans War
An autumn whisper
is the sleepy cicada
of a season lost
Our histories words all but lost
like tender garden yield to frost
so fallow, feign your fettered fear
that surer stalks can pierce the air.
Stand and present