Pure As Soil

In a book, whose title I don't remember, by L. Alcott I once read about a boy who became famous with the help of the devil by publishing a book of poems. But the devil told him his poems of love were incomplete. It was obvious he had never been in love. These are my desperate attempts at capturing the terrible, beautiful, devastating thing that is letting someone in your heart.

Love and Truth

Dread underlies my love,
Because I am afraid.
Place a dam inside,
Blocking off my heart,
The flood overtakes it all.

And I know
Hurt will swim
And I will bleed

There is not a barricade
Not even denial
That will be able to stop
This awful pain of trust

So I love you.
And I wait for devastation.

I came home and saw his letter,
Written on old blue lined paper.
Careful words covered more than half.
Dazed I drifted through unchanged rooms.
All our things were still there.
Only the keys and his clothes were gone.

Good bye.

This leaving hurts.
As can be told by the falling,
Falling,
Falling,
Of tears.

Comfort found through smiles,
And knowing,
That nothing can break forever.
Not distance.
Not trials.
Not years.