I think
all works of art
at their best
when they reach
their purpose
without setting a goal.

O' love....your name I hear everywhere
What are you?...I  asked.
A voice came from within the depth of my heart
Love is.....it said
"When the world is lying at your feet
Yet, you don't care to look
For you can't take off your eyes
from that one face. "
O' how truly beautiful love is...said I.
Come...come...love
Come to my heart
For I too wish to feel your touch
Dear sweet love.

I feel your sympathetic glare on me
I look at the ground
And marvel at at its patterns
To distract myself

If you really wish to help
Dont be sympathetic
Be empathetic

If we swear on sunshine,
And the silver of the moon.
We can be wed in this very room,
I will claim you as mine,
We will be as one divine.
If you swear to me and I swear to you,
We can await the alter soon.

If they let me,
I will lead,
I will carry this torch,
Through the storm and flood.

For if not for poetry,
I would be one with none,
This art is a language,
We must carry on.

Why are we different?
Because you are a brittle block of rotting wood,
And I am an immortal diamond within obsidian sand.
When angered, you will raise your hand,
But don't you dare raise it to me,
For I will stand like statue, your blow caught in my palm.

As I sit
on isolated
grounds of the
library covered
in cobwebs,
I hear a sound—

A sound
of dusted
silence.
My own
words echo.
No shadow
approached—

Nor has
found me—
like a dusty,
forgotten book
filled with
broken memoirs.
Left waiting
in the poetry
aisle—
left unread.

No soul paid witness,
To the burst of light,
At the beginning of time.

No soul saw the magic,
As it grew, forming the light,
Forming the dark.

No soul heard the heavenly spirits call,
From the risers of the stars,
Down to earth to raise the first dawn.

So all we have is faith,
A lone tie to what we failed to see.