In looking too closely, there is loss of sight of love
Perhaps embraced in a feeling, boldly accusing love of lacking
Practicality...
Counting the days in apprehension of it lasting.
The loss of the moments weigh on our hearts, as moss and mildew mid-August,
Strangling as it does, clinging to the valves
With a suffocating, vicious inclination
To capture it fully
Lest it stop beating.
Tell me, in the wilderness, does the oak not respire
Sweet sullen petrichor blindly?
Remaining fully in conscious enaction
Feeding the whole grain of the soil?
Even the vines climb up gently
The curl of budding extremities tracing, not to choke
But adorn every bend.
Are our infatuations not bournes
Meant for the time in their rush farther along the trek
Uphill so sought out to halt them;
Reversing retrospect and disproving
Every bout of fallible cowardice.
And because I could not take a step back,
One foot lay in theory - in the vacuum that awaited me there
O\' sure and imminent death, powerless to close the eye
At the faint realization that that cowardice there
Strives to confess that that formidable fear
Remained all along the sting of love in every bourne of tears.