“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Friday, September 15, 2017
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Strangely, and somehow ever still
we all agreed, we all believed
despite the odds for and against
a higher power
the harder the fall
be it for truth or justice, karma, saintliness, etc.
I guess something else made itself known
privately, intimately, miraculously, coincidentally
called Acts of God, meaning no explanation,
meaning no known cause or capacity or possibility
of escape from these well-kept secrets
about proof and feeling, outcomes and solutions,
and there was us
stuck in the unknown. Needing nurture.
Navigating through Despair,
getting lost in Hope.
We keep trying to solve for seasons or reasons
for the unpredictable Nature
mirroring our mirage-
And just perchance,
the devotion toward loving God(s),
holy spirits and the angelic, is an obsession,
with Death-the passion-ate rose, heart, compass,
pulled by this magnetic feeling.
Better to stop and smell the air about you,
make some sacrificial vows, He Loves Me (Not)
He loves me Now, in lieu of later.
We (will) Be Good, and ask ourselves
What Would (a) god do?
or a man
in our case?
We (will) wait.
Painting by Hermann Ottomar Herzog [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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