A heart has many loves, but
few passions. A few have
love for my heart.
They wait in their harbors
as my ship's sails are
ragged and I am lost
at sea.

Man's literature surveys the landscape of
life with such care that
the passionate man is merely a
caricature of innumerable minds.
The self-created man is as such
according to the connections of his own
experience to that of the volumes
adorning the world's shelves.
Mine eyes of passion are the reincarnation
of the angel Edmund Dantès; anguish
the respondent ripple of the Creature born in
Ingolstadt. Burns teaches humility
as Boethius the ambitions of Lady Fortune, both
under the whims of fleshly confinement.
To bear further testament, Nabokov
brands the sublimity of the individual as
the lost, old soul Taibhsear
calls Love out on the street holding the name
not of his greatest desire but that of her's.
Eons hold the grandest wealth that is the build-up
of the "drops in the ocean" that
are the whims of man and his
written word.

Grab it dearest, feel the power of
My soul beneath your fingertips. I will
Cleanse your spite, the vile decorating
The map-work of our Mother’s creation.
Fear not the whims of shadows and spells.
Through the radiance of emotion
The soul swipes clean the slate of mistakes,
Marks, and circumstantial torture. Go ahead
And wrap a portion of God so warm it
Masks the scars of the Lost and Wounded.

Rejoice! Partake in jubilation as
the world is alive. Choice
is etched in rivers of love. Tears
are wells of purified life
as they cascade down the quiet
of a woman’s face. Gods
stride amongst us as doves in
droves. Listen to the trees
sing dedications to mystery
and change. Bliss is
ours. If neoteny is the path
of humanity, then may
our souls be as soft
as a baby’s bottom. If love
truly goes from girl to
girl, then have a coke. Have,
see, do, create, share.
Welcome to the kisses of
the moon and the caresses
of the sun.

My message for the salty breeze,
in regards to my mother: "Our
relationship has waxed and waned,
like the tides and the moon, from
love to hate and back hither.
Time is like sleep, slow and sweet,
or I suppose a morning calm; it
has dulled the edge of the blade
that has scalped out our path.
I laugh at how clumsy our surgeon
has been. What a clumsy, ill-fitted
path we have all tread. I admit two
things however. One: I wouldn't
have had my life any other way. Two:
despite the tragedies, the suffering,
the ignorance, I am drawn to you
as I am tied to the sea. Constantly restless,
churning over the chum of the
past. No matter the sway of the tide,
there is happiness to be found
within the messages of our
bottled lives." Away the wind,
to the sun, and the higher truth.

The land
from here to then;
stretching into my heart.
The longing of my gypsy past
in me.

It was always a dream of mine
to capture the tincture that embodies
your sound; the voice that
wakes me from myself.

Words empower, words enslave; your
words gave succinctness to the
days. Periphrastic for show and
glamor, otherwise, it was always one to another.

"I" is for me, as you see fit.
"Love" is for us, as we dream it.
"You" is a sound that reverberates
off caged testimonies.

Sweet to me for sure; good to
you you claim. Please
pour forth that music. Love,
the chords of my harp-heart.