Rolling Back To Moss

It is a peculiarity of Love’s mossy light that once, hapless rocks drowning in their days would be overthrown by Love’s destructive plight and smooth-whiskered words its song to soothe in the belly of the whale its secrets brew. In the aftermath of glow the pilgrims kneel counting the bars of its serenading calm as fire, trapped by beauty, mistakes its zeal for something more than willing victims choose and fans condemn themselves to breeze. It’s nothing, but its something, and tired hope endures, cradling every Cupid with a wish. The vapours thin exposing every dusty mote and pretend or not, all hearts will sometimes need the mercy of their first and final love, never dimmed. A visit, spectral angels cavaliering through the night bringing blessings not condemned to wane, flowers falling in love with their own petalled sight bearing fragrance not descriptive like a name, all that’s true would only call itself “Increase”. The spring is fine as nectar to the flower brings though all condensed and jealous of the Fall, epic time is taken so all Eternity can sing and clip the butterfly into shapes more lovely - what delicate work! When love begins it’s sigh far from where it once stood burning, a lush constraint remains where freedom’s glove is lost walking down its harbour, past the moveless thrush and the crow all dead from drought, the rain will cease and Love will change to tear, rolling back to moss. The painter wild, the poet crazed all beyond his grasp, what jealous combination, what charisma! That together in a different stage marriage would outlast the spikes and needles of despairing dim machinery driving metal into hearts of soft enigma. Seasons turn and all that makes us sober stays safely tucked inside Betrayal’s chamber; Reason roots itself in the soil of Love’s eternal fun. Its sharp and pearly fingers, shaded from all danger, can grant us mooned medallions to reflect the Sun. The devil goes, the angel stays around in secret ringed in haloed words of beauty’s whispered tale. The two, not permitted by circumstantial thrall to enter communion’s sweet redeeming place…. Love supports itself to fail, just to rise above it all. Copyright. 2009. JLM.