Bournes Rush Through

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.