Oh, that iron fist that hides
In a velvet glove
Intoxicating the heart
Whilst ordering its erratic wanderings
Into the hard-edged metronomic beatings
Of a loveless marriage to mechanical objects
So clearly defined
To beguile the seeker of certainty

Could not that purple velvet
That flatters to deceive
Yet restore our child’s play?

An antidotal, anecdotal softening
Of hard manipulations
That exclude the darkness from the day

Light touching lightly upon the fringes
Of etchings into clay
Where the bodies’ soft life-linings
Can frolic in the summer hay

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frozen wave against sunlight

Reason to Love

Love is not divorced from Reason As abstracted minds declare Love is the Very Reason We are Where We are In an ever-flowing stream of

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