[wishful thinking about a future we know nothing about]

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It is an illness

Of the mind

Day and night

A malady signed

And sealed

And kept inside

Seething, throbbing

Until revealed

- to one person.


All

Becomes

Quiet.

The interior healed

An aching soothed

A burning cooled

And all is whole again.

Peace is found

In the touch

In the sound

Of another person

Until no nearness becomes

Near enough

Until time is never

Time enough.


So that parting pulls apart

Everything within

And through this opening

A sickness seizes the soul

Bitter and beating

Shutting the senses

So that one feels 

Nothing at all

’Til only when

That same touch

Is felt again.


Like a madness,

Love.

Created: Jul 17, 2012

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