This is a song to those who find themselves submersed and intoxicated by love and loving, to those who park (in their cars) in arbitary locations to manifest this unconditional and natural human affection just because. This manifestation is one step closer to reaching devinity and holiness, despite the irony. In this act, to those who welcome the sentiment, sheds not only cotton and linens, but all secondary intentions and they become animals.
The cold falls harder in New England.
A perfume on clean skin, and in the air,
and inside your metal box.
Snow does not touch the shelter,
my home.
origin: a crevace
(Cotton picked and cotton sewn
used to be enough, but does not now
have the wherewithal to cling properly)
objective: feel God.
He touches the white canvas when
you are me, and when roses are visible
in the mirror, and when the freckles
upon our skin have been cleared to
reveal only but a hint of heaven,
a moment of bare creation.
What incentive!
The machine sits humming in
the distance, upon a wooded path….
A warm wind whispered and revealed a
speck of red within the snow:
’twas not buried, but in the hungry place.
“Have you lost anything lately?”
-mhmm….
The rose tucked away, beneath the
intricate patterns stitched into fabric,
finds security upon my lips.
Handle carefully the pedals and the stem
and cherish to praise
for He will show you the Big Bang.
Intoxicated promises of a naïve man
are only as valuable as todays actions.
And it is through those actions we bolster
the assumption of existence, living vicariously
through human interaction, because without it
we are as white as the snow.
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