The Cradle of Love
The heart, the soul, the mystic entity
embarrassed within the sinew of muscle and bone,
abstract yet iron clad as morning mist.
The cradle of love rocks never ending,
soft to touch with fires embrace,
yearning for touch, fearful of lost pain.
As the moth is drawn to enchanting flame,
the call cannot be shuttered from life,
consequence failure, cloistered behind closed door.
The all consuming embrace of shared love,
a bond of spirit in balance, unchallenged,
in open offer without fear, selfless.
Yet love is a fantasy, a world of soft corners,
shades no darker than gray and sun filled rooms,
bound by dreams and hopes of perceived import.
The test of such grand expectation lay not
in the offerings held open hand bequeath,
but in truth of spirit and spoken word.
For if honesty is not the stone of foundation
the mortar of love will crumble and fail,
stones to separate and loose the ethereal bond.
To writhe in lost loves pain in continued cycle
think to truth, not blame or circumstance,
for the cradle of love rocks never ending.
Robert Gene Stoner Jr
6/16/16 ©
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