“Well, any love makes us vulnerable. Whatever we love will give the gift of pain somewhere along the road. But who would live sealed in spiritual cellophane just to keep from ever being hurt? There are a few people like that. I’m sorry for them. I think they are as good as dead.” ― Gladys Taber, Harvest at Stillmeadow  


 Thinking she with baited breath, breathed the bearing winds
and with heated highs holding hands of holy fortune
But I was wrong

Believing the best of both between beaten breaking waves
and with hope helping a healing of heavy history
But I was wrong

Being wrong is easy, but the scorching blisters that remain from the heat of desire bring the pain of dying belief. Having lifted her up with my service and hope, giving all of my time and energy to see a buck shot doe come to life, who would know that she would attack me? A desperate soul uses no discretion in the flailing attempts at survival. Once on solid ground she looked back and saw me, floating on an ocean created by my sweat and tears, upside down, blue and bloated with discouraged heartache. In my resurrected state I can see her, and still I believe in her, being taught that my sacrifice means nothing in the comeback of the starlet. I only see her from a distance, and beholding her as the stars, hope that I never see her come streaking out of the night sky, burning through the atmosphere of her wantonness, and crashing into a broken blaze of kindling people.

Be it religion or love, in the end, who will use you up?