Someone please tell me,  that

..The true Art of Love  is more
than the self-centered,  'incestuous'
  form of  love,  shown
within what the Modern world
refers to as "Romantic love"..
aw ****.. please tell me it is more

    Romantic love says this--
"You are 'of value' to me because I love you"
"You are 'of value' to me because you are in my life"
"You are 'of value' to me because you are  mine"

And after the 'bliss-filled'  romantic love
     ***** the bed..
the only value that remains is through the residual,
soon to be diluted and washed out by displacement--

..Either that of a new self-centered based  'filling'
or that of the re-placement of "value-image"  
with that, brought about through the all-too-ready
  and internally-available Gaslighting process

So please, please explain it to me just how  wonderfully
"romantic' love can truly ever aid in the healing process..
     someone.. please.


     .      .      .      .      .      .      .    

Alone  she sits in her room,  waiting.
The atoms  of the air,  
carry  both sides  of the story--

  The coldness  and the warmth
  the closeness, and the distance

  ..the empty-black
  followed by the Sky-filled Blue

  Someone please tell me,  just who
  helped this little-one  to see
     that the way  out..
     is the way,  through?

Protected to the point  of nearly dying
    Insulation is isolation to the bone
     (she is crying, crying,  crying)

On a Prayer mat,  facing East;
a grounded soul  is flying

    (but flying  so very all alone)

There is a Chaste,  and a Purity
  Borne separated
from the Un-doings  of man..
    Void of all walls,  
   there is a susceptibility

Yet also  a wide-Opening
    to the pressings  of the Ache

There has been a waiting
to the point of near Death
A look in Patient eyes
    (One that separates me  
       from my breath)

Not all are so protected
from the Fallen  love of man
..Not all  have almost died
so all alone  in their room; 

  protected

From that empty kind  of love
leading to an empty, empty  Death

The center of the City is a hub..
the roads leading out (back in);
the spokes of a wheel

The road alongside,
is traveled  by so many
I am the rust on the rim
that aches  its way in

It is so much work
to return to that of Titanium
The beautiful Hub begs
  I do my best.

I marvel at the fact
that I have not yet even  begun
to find what my best really is.


Let it be..     No..

  May it be..



   ..that  of the world

           of  the  Unlimited

Within  the stability
Of a late-night bed,
    thighs part fully
from words  given..
    Words, sent

Hands  on curved hips;
*******, to bare chest..

As the daughter  of Light
   is lifted up

there is an Entering

In Seed-splashed egg
a  New Beginning;

Chains  of steel
  falling free
within  the warmth
of   each  new  Pulsing

(there is the  sound of Ecstacy
on the  inside  of the door;
on the other  side of it--
the forever-harsh  clank,  
of judgement)