When love found you again, was she wearing red or white?
Was she wearing a dress?
Do you even remember what she was wearing, or what color,
or were you too drawn to her lips? Or her eyes? Or her skin?
And when you found love again, were your emotions contained? Your feelings bottled?
Were your solutions contaminated? Your feigned peace now but an uncalled-for battle?

Poetry is not meant to be consumed like beer or cigarettes
or even gin... poetry is meant to be savoured like wine;
that in slow sips, through mindful mouthfuls.
Poetry is the wine of the alcoholic literature.
Like some love stories are not to be rushed or rehearsed
or rabid or rapid, not a combustion; rather of steady and stable,
like that of the time of waiting for grapes to be wine.

So who’s to say God hasn’t been orchestrating the wars, the famine, the wreckage, the floodings, making us wait for his return,
for the good of all of us? Good by his definition, who else?
Who’s to write that he’s not only delaying our graces by serving us children’s cold bodies for appetizers, before the main dish of eternal salvation? Who’s to know?