Of Love’s—Rhythm of Love…

wd_311Dream dance—touch memory—spells of angel’s—sorcery and you. Witch of contours—constructs—sights and scents—imaginary visions—and—places inside— restaurant deep—rooms tucked—inside—place of bars—and—dance—of clamor—then silence—pounding hearts—whispered flights —twin fancy—love touch and wine. Booth for two and drawn drapes—of places—secret worlds—others not required—where both—twins of women and of men—dance private thoughts—touch and smile—whisper and share—without form—spirits swirl—spirits twirl and spirits whirl—with life—either with or without—substance. Touch—by moments—of time touch—and butterfly—kisses — never lonely—spirits in dying—worlds. Life—heartbeats are good—of ring-circles—of fancy—of love’s rhythm—of love.

Brush—eye-lash-to-face—form dance in dreams and seems—as long pause—no cause— without voice—just breath-to-breathe—tiny freckles—lips to laugh—and—eyes to quest— together. Visions and quiet word—songs with gentle—space and no race—blends of—silence or whisper-speaks. Dreams-then dream quest—cease—increase those—creases in time—curtains’ climb—spaces die—and visit speak—of ways—of star-side streak—of starlight sweet—of gentle union—and love. Life—lives and mingle—heart touch good —as ring-circles—fancy-dance—into love’s rhythm—of love.

Sailing ships—her gown—morning sun—pours through—window ridge and—fills a doorway—sun-side—frames body—in opaque notions—textures’ clothing—with magic light-wrap—to thin—almost transparent— ‘cross shadows—across her curves. Light creations—witch—twitch sprinkle—as magic ‘cross—star-loss touch—somewhere else—betwixt Sirius—and Mother ships—images—imagination and textures—secret places —both found—and—lost and touched—again.  Life and heartbeats are good—fancy of ring-circle—are fancy so good—into love’s rhythm—of love.

Little Robots become—because spirits reenter—entry and starting—the starts—of blast off—and crash—just before the burn. The newest giggle-to-wiggle-to-someone’s sorting—and—another starting or ending—and all—is just alright—OK? Little Robots feel—we feel—and laugh—and cry—and live–as you and I—laugh and cry—and live—and die—and wiggle-to-giggle—while sorting—the carding—players—‘round-this-table-or-that-corner—when warm or cold— and—we watch them—watch-us-watch—and–again we circle—we dance—inside same ring—-at end galaxy—in bright new worlds. And! Harbor ships—safely tuck away—are safe…

Now! Walk down—carpet aisle. A forever aisle—covered deep-knees-deep—in blood and flower streaks—incorrect colors—red scent. Perfume—scent too sweet—unreal—while plastic grows—from metal stand—and—glass vase. The memory—a scattering-rattling—of failed movies—no projector—mid-mind-side—and feeble…So few survive—shatter hours—loss—to much loss—baby loss—is ‘sacred loss’—savage proof—child loss—is never—sufficient reasons—for life. Loss-is-loss—and—hell-is-never–reasons-for—light.

Casket born—and—little ones. Tiny box—giant sorrow—unexpected—unresolved—and— not replaceable—for unnatural—is this grief. Inside—October City—the pressure of the cooker—is great—is steaming beast—as real—as puppies–in May—and the death—of baby. However—puppy becomes dog—and—too soon lose—interest while—chasing streaks of yellow or green—ribbon. Timed—Robots we—must rest—beneath bright suns—warm bones—and—slow with age. We live and we should—‘move on’—naturally. Born this world—into cycle—into pleasure—into pain—and—when animation ends—racing spirits move—‘cross space and time—no heavens—no hell—just sweet life—for  heartbeat and whispers—are good—and—ring-circles—just fancy us—into love’s rhythm—of love.

‘White Dove’

“A place without a name
Under a burning sky
There’s no milk and honey here
In the land of God

Someone holds a sign
It says we are human, too
And while the sun goes down
The world goes by

White dove
Fly with the wind
Take our hope under your wings
For the world to know
That hope will not die
Where the children cry

Waves, big like a house
They’re stranded on a piece of wood
To leave it all behind
To start again

But instead of a new life
All they find is a door that’s closed
And they keep looking for
A place called hope

White dove
Fly with the wind
Take our hope under your wings
For the world to know
That hope will not die
Where the children cry”…Scorpions

Let us find together—The beat we’re looking for” by Klaus Meine and Rudolf Schenker

And! Beautiful you are…

‘The Rhythm of Love’…Scorpions

‘White Dove’…Scorpions

15 comments on “Of Love’s—Rhythm of Love…

  1. The building passion, the crescendo of love and the quick quick spiral down into the unimaginable pain of loss of child captivates and slings me around like washing in the spinner as I, and your words, cling onto love. I love.

    • Hi Osyth…Thanks! Life mixes—‘good-bad-and often ugly.’ But always—Love’s sweet rhythm—captivates and ‘maybe’ balance— props upright self on–tiny wooden slivers—and—on great waves and always tears…Wishing you—Love’s sweet wonder…Phil

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