How dull.
Fruit without stem,
Branch, or root.
To tell the heart it is full.
To guide it like candle light,
In the night sky.
Although mine shimmers,
With stars, I cannot -
Cannot - be the only spark.
Reach my heart with the vine,
This is my life, sacred, divine,
Spaces holy in mind,
Rushing river, do not,
Pull me away.
I shall not bite into wrath this day.
The circle is cast.
If love is a ritual, then I,
Am forever gone.
Shimmering fool, too bright ---
Your love is a universe.
It spins on the axis of heel,
Rushing down to the head;
The flakes of alone withering,
In the wind, blown apart.
The kind of love that peers down,
Yet looks up at a mass of untamed,
Blaze, soft yet fierce ---
Love, this is us.
Honed to a spike.
Yet the missing pieces to a whole.
Together. Fruit, the branch, the stem,
The root drinking from the heart.
No detached dullness.
We cling to the element,
Even cold, even scorching.
We find the hidden door, and cross over ---
How Dull by Christian Gould
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