Being

There have always been books of love poems. Rolling sonnets, speckled with "let me counts" and "without-a-doubts," sounding similar to the ones on the pages before. I never knew there could be so many ways to say the same thing. Though, I like it plain. And I'm not quite sure that a rose by any other name would still smell as sweet, because the power of suggestion is impressive. If I tell you that I hate you often enough, perhaps, I could come to believe it. But, probably not. And sometimes, the sky is white, or blue, or black. In all of this, it remains the sky. I know it is. Just as I know that when This is done; when the wind is still and the horizon is invalid, and death has come, and religion is through, there WILL be God, and me, and you.