That incense turned to smoke.
Holy smokes.
The first time you held me
The first time you asked to kiss me.
I could smell it on your clothes, years of smoke and hot nights,
round a thousand campfires in your heart. Burning now.
Burning now like my shoulders, since he
placed the weight of world on them
Said "Hold this, BRB"
Then disappeared.
So now we soldier on, in the smoke
In the burning of desire
In the tepidness of fire
Shedding a few tears, there and here
Over silly dreams betrayed
Now become unfrayed in the glory of the sun
Nothing unquenched in the flood
Nothing untested in love
Happy, hand-in-hand we gaze
Musing on each other's hopeful faces
Lost in your waiting arms
Sleeping in the torrent of graceful rain
Falling from the Star of the Sea
(I heard you say, "Peace, Be still".
Say it again and I will obey.
Just promise you'll wait for me.)
Were I to worship eloquence, as Byron and his ilk seemingly did, I would fall to my knees at the reading of this. It's as ardent, compelling, and gutsy as anything devotional I've ever read, apart from the Psalms themselves. And I hesitate to say that least I lure you from the sincerity of your devotion
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