Each love in this place breathes its own air.
The individual truth, which isn’t universal in its exactness, still soars, yearns to be set free of my hold. After all, what’s it worth to one? It’s lonely, languid, and most ready to take its place in the back alleys of abhorrence. The bean counter hesitates. What of the growing numbers that furrow their way across my arid tongue?
I have much to do. Where to start, who to seek, what to gain? Imagine the lives saved from the dust of war, like a video game where Love triumphs over the misuse of insane doctrines. And these words, like all others, are thoughts that grapple of laughter, liberty, life and Love.
Crows Remember Angry Humans. They Never Forget Their Face.
Scanning the face of trouble, is inherent like the blush of love detected as I dance with another living spirit moving across my span of breath, my affections.
The Blue-winged Warbler pecks at the beetle moving beneath the shadows of trees and the goldenrod and the Brown-headed Cowbird to make its vanishing known. Because there is weariness in the foliage and in Love, I must sing their ode.
I can talk of it and think of it, chat with friends, grumble of the wire thin grief caught in my throat, someone has to think of a remedy for unhappiness, why not the crow?
© 2011 by mark prime
Nice, my love!
ReplyDeleteThank you my dear and lovely love...
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