22 Years And Counting ( Recovery From Life)
The separation of love from soul
a dreadful death itself.
Stripped of denial, now a raw wound,
time is the only true cure,
requiring a rebirth of the soul again into love.
Love surrounds me.
It is in a child’s smile,
an elder hand, withered, wise.
Words of support and kindnesses,
Common courtesies, welcoming hugs,
respectful endearments and
tentative encounters of barely intimate moments.
Love shows with the rising sun,
and gentle rains, and the reality
that I exist.
There are things of love
collected, a consolation of time, unfulfilled,
And the longing begins to pry itself
from a place so deep within
you cannot believe it will grow.
Though you have nurtured loves,
a small child, a withered hand,
the deep inhalation that whelms
the heart, eludes you.
No euphoria of endorphins
no soothing voice assurance
no melting touches of comfort
the ultimate soul mate death.
Now, poetry of love, known by others
Soothes my soul, for a moment, fills my senses
With euphoria of that first love
in written word
So I do not forget.