It is.

Love is not cars
Zooming across these
Tangible paths of
finite bliss.

Love is not this
Tactual reality.
One that grows
And grosses with
The same touch.

Love is not that
Mother, tired
Living, actualizing all
That is read and told
Of the shoulds and the musts.

Love isn’t
Existence waiting to happen.
A moment that could be.
it isn’t Chance dancing,
Playing tap with its fingers.

Love isn’t that father,
Lost in the realms of
Providence. Quiet. Muted.
And himself forgotten.

Love is not this Man.
This Woman.
Always in waiting.
Always on call.
Always coming out.
And always better
Than everything that is.

Love is not those
Bunched flowers
You think express.
They are flowers.
They are not love.
Nothing is love.

Love is. It just is.
And there are no schools,
No masters,
No mystics who can prepare you for it.
How can you learn something that just is?

Love is.
So sit. And merge into the wild
colours of being. Just being.

Love is.
So be. Just be.


One thought on “It is.

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