The Laughter

“If we couldn’t laugh we would all go insane.” ― Robert Frost
 

kirk-landkills

When she laughed the sound filled the rooms, spilling over into the breeze and bringing a thousand butterflies to life. I’ve heard no sound like it before, it comes from her soul, places unseen in the spirit of gentleness. Her laugh sang a lullaby that dismissed my fears and loneliness. For a moment in time, I forgot the tragedy of living and remembered the beauty of life. Of all the sounds that echo in my mind, consuming my conscience like rain on a tin roof, her laugh is my mantra of peace. I’m amazed that such joy and wholehearted happiness can exist at all, in my life not so much as a faint chuckle is heard, much less the verbal deep seated happiness of a healthy giggle. It spills over from her full cup and I wipe it up with every fiber of my being, it stains my soul with colors like a tie dyed shirt from the 60’s. I know many sounds fade, more now that I’m older, but her laugh, this I need like sunrise everyday, warming and encouraging, bringing the hope of spring and it’s little births. I curled up deeper in the covers, and a smile crept over my face, all while she laughed.

Lover – A Passion With Words

“No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.” Robert Frost

A reblogged post from Descending Ascension

loveendlesslyforevermore

My lover draws twine and yarn past my lips.

Threading words through my mind.
Coiling and winding ‘round my neck,
only letting pass words of breadth
My lover lets me liken glass to diamonds,
and forget the time.
Passionate and gentle.
Pulling me into a feverish passion.
Stopping my breath with a single word,
a simple phrase,
a quiet truth,
my lover knows how to look past my ruse.
Each passing moment is spent filled with the emotions evoked by such passions
Turmoil,
Desire,
Sorrow,
Joy.
Caressing me.
Tenderly kissing 
every page of my body.
Sighing my verse.
Let me write our love.
Demanding no physical touch.
Merely heartfelt words,
restraining our touch 
only to be released through the words on this page.
You understand this is my love.
My writings are my lover,
and I it’s suitor.
-R.S.L.S