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God is a distant—stately Lover—
Woos, as He states us—by His Son—
Verily, a Vicarious Courtship—
“Miles”, and “Priscilla”, were such an One—

But, lest the Soul—like fair “Priscilla”
Choose the Envoy—and spurn the Groom—
Vouches, with hyperbolic archness—
“Miles”, and “John Alden” were Synonym—
this time we are trying..
wrapping the wish with wound..
pile up the jewel with ember..
cover the reality with archness..

this time we act the same..
digging what wont be sought..
calling what is denied in the bottom of heart..
release what  has been gained..

no.. isn't this heart want to be cheat..
however, the moon  and earth has yet to meet ..
let moon dimly hug the yearnings..
wishing the sun would never know..

but that's okay ..
by the time that we've got ..
we're string up again more words ..
of the fire and the wood will be intertwine more stories ..

and at the time ..
maybe a hundred or a thousand years later ..
we'll meet right in the heart of the horizon ..

whether the previous dreams that  want to be shared ..
or even ourselves had already not recognize each other ..*


┈┈┈┈»̶·̵̭̌✽✽·̵̭̌«̶  ƦУ  »̶·̵̭̌✽✽·̵̭̌«̶┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈
if the wood burning fire, the fire did not want to do that ..
because he knows you are the earth even though he would deny it..
Anna Christine May 2012
There is no silver, among the gold hair
On top of the airy, archness woman
It’s not that she has forgotten, for I have not.
Bearing an artificial wish to him
To inflame her no more
It’s not that she is fearless, for I am not.
’twas the accuracy of his aim
that pierced the air of assumption
At the center of the twisting path
Rooted in prejudice standing in solitude
Determined to never succumb to the man
Destined to never find a way out
And it’s not that she is not I, for she is.
It’s that I am here and you found me
But with the blow of fate
the chaos of the confusion created peace
yet still to be found in the maze
with the dawning recognition at our backs.

It is not that she doesn’t love, for I do.

— The End —