The Night's Purse
The last of a songbird’s notes have fallen into the night’s purse,
and you have known my dances are behind shadows where some of
me has hidden to heal or die.
It seems there are no truths but only dirt and tears and at last
the only remaining mouth that spills songs into hearts
and tender arms is yours my love.
Where we exist there are no stationary objects but a wide orbit
that entertains the unknowable; to feel the butterfly awaken
is an infinite joy stooped upon the vast spirals of our Cathedral.
This love, our love, is universal and eternal.
Forever yours!
:: 07-12-2017 ::
Copyright © Ernest Robles | Year Posted 2017
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