I thought love could be controlled
I thought that love would adapt to me
it does not
needs, expectations, societal
obscurity of grey cloud
cast in the azure of a warm summer sky
between the spoken word
illuminates all that is done
manifest reality, acts and intentions
seen in a new light
deeds of omission and commission
all that is nearest now
contrasts become defined
a whisper of emergence
is yet unnoticed
all rests on contingency
of the superstructure
of what is supposed to be
are we loving yet?
emulating even an insignificant degree of Truth?
an appropriate future should form
should it not?
a process even though slightly
of hearts desire, an apology
heart shattering but nevertheless prolific
a do not disturb or disrupt
policy is well maintained
and the distance kept and enforced
is so utterly acceptable
submissions of nebulous order
the spontaneity of authenticity
corrosive and carcinogenic, in a spiritual sense
a soul fragmented
but invisibly so
besides the visual effects
are purely natural,
merely blossoms then falls
to die, isnt it supposed to be so?
the historicity of the flower
had a linear natural pattern
to display, each one an experience unique, progressive
the rhythms of time, that is the beauty of it.
the flower once had
petals profuse dynamic
as they intertwined
into an abundance of a foreverness of one.
with the transcendence of eternity
the beauty was brief, but wasnt the depth profound?
as the quest toward mundane success surfaces
apparently and with deliberance it
severed the blossom from where it had been
the fall was swift, silent
natural yet also
with finality. was it spiritual? logically
argued that it is natural and therefore to be
accepted with grace
all I do now is wonder what kind of grace
can the dew of heaven
bless this union now?
the nectar of Divine Will is sublime,
devotion, pure and lovely
yet the waters separate from the sky
in the horizon, just look into the distance.
my hand trembles before such a destiny
or before such a tragic comedy.
to think that love could be controlled.
the best part of love does not answer
to any conscious intent
can you see it too?
or is it just a peculiarity of perception?
I hope and pray
that you will accept
my most humble and sincere
by Deborah Morrison
From Mystical Poetry