| Pain is not pain when it can release. The harboring of a wound leads to stagnation. Even if that wound is Pride, pride leads to indolence. Indolence to indifference... and the chariot begins to cease... all goodness and growth require humble beginnings. We often shame away from vulnerability, viewing it as weakness. But all beauty in this world has a fragility to it. The morning dew on leaves... Each petal of the spring rose. The tender way my lips meet yours, and meld together in nostalgic passion. Some days I awake, and the beauty of it all is almost too much for me. I see the web of a spider abandoned from the night before and follow the patterns of silk to the center of her maze. The secrets of the universe are written there. Hushed and hidden from eyes that are in flight. That forever search but do not see. I am beginning to notice your pattern, is this the way you speak to me? It is becoming easier to devote myself to you, though still I pine for a visit in the flesh. You remove me further and further from such transitory embrace. You whisper to me, "look at the permanence, the cycles allow this..." and I respond in fervor, "the end is a beginning, the beginning another end..." So it continues, on and on without reason or logic. I am leaving it behind here, with last night's pregnant moon. So I can become emptier and emptier when meeting you. |
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