In loving time,
we find again that circumstance
can fool the mind;
the heart that follows, wondering
where all it ends.
The all that is in each of us —
it’s true, my friends.
In loving, time
becomes that thing, both meaningless
and precious, true —
what all there is, and was,
that matters; what to do
when ruptures happen everyday
and vainly, we seek signs.
Out in the hills,
a meadow green that’s rarely seen,
much like the heart of love that hides
mid concrete walls;
and yet, it’s worth the trip
the trouble, and
the climb
to spend the minutes that we have
in loving time
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Tagged: Tags Poetry
Published by Beleaguered Servant
Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.
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