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Breathe Your Love if You are Going to Parrot the Truth


Neighbor, breathe your love if you are going to parrot the truth…

(Don’t sit there with the smugness reserved for kings. Love!)

There is no cunning in Love, it is the pirouette, the canvas upon which to paint our love not our confounded fears…

(What order did you expect it to come pouring out of your hands, lips with fingers, upside-down headed man?)

Touch upon Love and you will soon never touch upon another in any way, but that which most loves…

(No! You yourself have fouled your own ideal! Live by your word, Mark Richard Prime!)

I don’t remember my words! Not in any order, much like my story, I had nothing because I believed in nothing!

(Nothing, too, is a belief, Rimnod.)

I only remember now, these words, now, and my now and these words are starting to blur. It keeps me honest, certainly more so than if I were shelled away in some makeshift partition with all my indifference as drink, my fears as goblet for all to swill…

(Oh.)

 (Silence…)

© 2012 the spirit of Love dancing through Mark Richard Prime

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