Poetry

The Pride Before, 16 (229.)

Who first charted the course of your arm, the
tributaries that travel from hand to heart,
and all the clearings in between –
they are a marvel, and command respect, but I
wish to be the next explorer to walk
your wooded ways.
The old map may get your outskirts just right,
but everything further within,
it’s as mysterious as a pitch black night;
I wander ‘neath the moon with no torch,
and, bumping into hedges and trees,
find my way to your arms again.
I have parchment and inks,
though they do no good –
I can outline a path to your center
but the way is not always sure,
and these adventures to your good graces,
enjoyable treks to your oscillating laughter,
these are the journeys for which I live.
To map your love, in pretentious heartography,
is to render it
as lifeless as a sundered tree.
I want to live it.
I want to walk it.
Hold my hand and dance with me,
my dear;
we have eons left
to fill.

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