if ever there was a time before song then still I am sure was the land filled with singers ringing their hearts for want of just the right words to express the truths they held dear or the fears born of darkly silence
how maddening the unspoken tones tearfully tearing at their sighing souls, the mourning melancholy when folly begets loss and limits salvation’s hope, but much more than this: how dreadful to love yet lack the lyrics to sing!
i am no artist, yet can in clinging feel the beating of this heart, and thus reveal through Brighid’s profoundly mystical inspiration, paving the way for tales of sensual abandon and honest desires, and verses that simply vowing explore
more adoringly the fullest warmth and gentlest beauty of my beloved that naturally rises beyond any song ever sung by the fair finest of men
my heart sings, yet sometimes weeps for the dawning truth of the life she has lived giving generously of gracious her, enduring so much the ills thrust upon her by selfish others
when she speaks
my spirit playfully laughs mapping out moments of sheerest joy that gleefully toy with the bounds of feeling, peeling away layer by layers the loss, uncertainty and mere age
tonight I will sleep embraced by memories of her and awaken desperate my love to meet again, I will sigh at the memory of her every crimson touch, and will melt as her fears dissolve in our heat
I listen and rise, soaring gently over mountains, ascending flesh in flesh as we flow with the sea, tasting oceans of merriment and hope despite the ignorance I had dwelt within naïvely thinking my life to be done
when she speaks, I know so surely that this world is ours to compose with every breath she inspires in me when she speaks, I discover truth in the tiniest drop of sun that alights on the wing of the smallest ladybird
I listened from a great distance. Yes truly. Yet time unconcerned vanished in mere moments of hearing her captivating voice. But I felt nothing of that space weighing down upon me, as I was sure it must have done. Rather, it was as if she were here beside me, her hand in mine, her warmth imbuing each moment with the sweetest tenderness.
I looked at the somber mountains surrounding this arid valley and saw them gleeful glimmer as they had not done in ages. I breathed in the once stale air, allowed it to course through me filling my lungs with vigor, and felt immediately refreshed. I listened to my heart beating with a youthful vitality that I thought had long since dissipated.
Each word she spoke touched my once sorrowful soul like a beloved song, like a primal prayer, as if somehow they had been enchanted. En. Chant. Yes. That was it. For there is indeed a magic, an enchantment in the spoken word that humanity has long attended. As have I. So have we all. As beyond the illusions resides a truth.
I listened enraptured. And in her voice I perceived serenity and a joyful hope beyond measure.
Poetry is my voice— it is how I speakingly explore this life, this worldly being bleeding moments of profusely personal me needing, never knowing what or even if these words any meaning beyond this me, this moment might attain, and yet certain of this alone: that this world owes me nothing, while I infinitely always will remain beholden for the immense beauty she has blessed me with and the voice with which to adore her.