Friday, January 16, 2015


What strange, beauty is this?
That the promise of you, mere inches from my eyes
can turn my gaze ages forward,
so that an entire lifetime
sits hovering above my lap.

There lies one thousand joys and defeats,
all floating in a golden, misty haze.
They are blurred, but they are there.

I do not regard myself a prophet in any sense of the term,
but I cannot deny this skyline of visions.

So if I speak any future truth about our souls, know this.
That you held this heart
long before these arms ever held you.

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