The thought came carried like a slap to the face,
resting upon the brilliance of a dove:
this solitary white somewhat of an eyesore,
painted in like an afterthought to such fluorescent light above.
Artist, compose an image, both timeless and fleeting, if you dare.
Bride, this dove may not appear much in opposition, but no gift could ever compare.
These portals express our frailty,
the same fear Simon developed over countless a threat, a stare.
(If you'd care to reminisce, feel no fear, be my guest,
I'll be pouring out my soul during the interview, just over here.)
I could find this melody anywhere.
It's the eyes that are faithful to creep back in
and betray the lies that Eve held dear.
The thought emerged like embers beneath early Jemez morning ashes,
held too long as though a souvenir (and overcome by charcoal and night, but destined to reappear).
Keep crying out, o my soul!
I'm filthy but sunrise conjures awe and fear.
It's the morning dew, the mountains reflected upon the water hold true
(and if I believe may I walk upon the ripples like you?)
that remind me why I'm still here.
The thought came carried like a blow to the head -
the freedom developed within my tears -
and the grace somewhat a seed of revival sprinkled upon said stubborn veneer…
a matrimony, I'm sure,
of no greater, I should ever hear.
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