There is a beauty upon words

There is a beauty upon words
Like the echo of Yeats'breath so sweet Yet solemn as David Gilmour's guitar play

As with age I grow not wiser but look back
And can but think how much more easy it would be to jump in Poseidon's emerald waters

When all feeling has turned so deep so intense that fool that I am I cannot hold it within my conscience

That my dearest friends is why I fear to leave sorrow, for doing so without bearing the strength to look at spring's first blossom buried under snow I resemble death already though he be my protector from weakness itself; death is not the scythe wearing skeleton of dreams it is salvation in acceptance

For hear me when I say with the genuinest of all concessions that I do not wish to falter, I stumble stubbornly against the maelstrom of life's passage just so I see my limits all the clearer

I am human.

Time passes and I cannot lay your shadow's remembrance to rest - judge me not with ease because you should know I would be leaving my very soul behind.

A lover's confession