in a single drop of Reign

.

.

.

waiting,  for Always

 

.

.

*

.

as I

listen

to these

DoveTales

moving so soft

and so slow through

the corridors of my heart,

as liquid,  and falling from a crack

in the sky not even God could ever mend,

I bow my head before the glory of their perfectly

poised array,  like waves,  sent forth from the mighty

Sea of Love itself,  to herald the coming of a Beauty held

captive inside a most terrible Sadness,  one that can only

be pulled free by the very Chains of Awakening,  as if my

tears were being measured not only by their number, 

but a seemingly desperate need for God to finally

understand just how far a human heart can

be filled with such indescribable

Joy,  before it

 

 

 

 

 

      breaks . . .

.

.

.

where the Sand, meets the Foam

.

.

.

.

     a deep and beautiful sadness . . .

(  this Tide,  of Remember  )

 

 

there are Moments,  when and until,  if not for these Tears,

then My Heart would surely burst,  from trying to hold

      back all the Waves,  in a Sea of Might Have Been . . .

.

.

.

.

in The Silence, of Regard

.

.

.

All Things Clear

(  More,  than Ever  )

 

 

it is no longer about who or what I do not have,  or have so recently lost,

but of a far deeper,  and more meaningful Embrace,  within The Arms

of every Blessing now held in a Symphony of Moments that

      colors this Sunset of My Days left here on Earth . . .

 

and of Those I imagine still,  with such everlastingly beautiful sadness,

I can only hope They are quite safe,  and quite sound,  and Their every breath

fills Their sky with unspeakable Wonder,  and a Peace like no other tells Them

that Their Days will be long savored,  and abundant,  and spent so very

     far away from harm,  and well within the absence,  of fear . . .

 

yet alas I am diminished,  for in the purpose,  place or proximity once

filled by Their glorious Presence,  there endures only a whisper of an echo

of What Was,  so,  time and again I turn to Remember,  where They dwell, 

      whose Memory holds nothing less,  than The Best Days,  of My Life . . .

.

.

.