Perhaps Love Does Really Exist

Perhaps love does really exist, but the beings we are surrounded by don't know how
Perhaps there is no such thing as soulmates, but if you're blessed with loving someone who respects you back, you should stick with 'em 
Perhaps the tides come in and then receed to show us what, if anything, will be left behind after some turbulence
Perhaps we shouldn't compare struggles, feet can manage socks and hands can manage mittens

Perhaps Love Does Really Exist

Perhaps love does really exist, but the beings we are surrounded by don't know how
Perhaps there is no such thing as soulmates, but if you're blessed with loving someone who respects you back, you should stick with 'em
Perhaps the tides come in and then receed to show us what, if anything, will be left behind after some turbulence
Perhaps we shouldn't compare struggles, feet can manage socks and hands can manage mittens

Earth

If you want to milk the Earth as a cow,
Then nourish the soil with seed and plow;
For when it’s set with deep grown roots,
Like a plentiful tree, it will yield many fruits.
 
 
 
Inspired by a Sanskrit poem by Bhartri-Hari, as translated in the Clay Sanskrit Library edition:
 
Rajan, dudhuksasi yadi Ksiti dhenum enam,
Ten’ adya vatsam iva lokam amum pusana;
Tasmims ca samyag anisam paripusyamane
Nana phalam phalati kalpa lat eva Bhumih.
 
King, if you want to milk this Earth as a cow,

Sweet

Nothing is so dear, a noble warrior said,
Than glory bought by armor pierced in blood
Amid the cries of those who’ve fallen in mud—
For what is life if honor’s been left for dead?
 
Emaciated, poor, or stuck without life’s luck,
It’s to the bold and daring that the world goes;
Whether in women, war, or what ambition sows,
With courage alone we come up from the muck.
 
Some say the day-maker rises with the sun
As the lord of night shines down from the moon:
For all that’s fire, a life without water is none,

Witch’s Brew

A fern surrounds my life like a hollow maze
In the intricate lattice of love’s first gaze;
Following a pattern that guides me on this road
I reach for her lips beneath the mistletoe.
 
My love comes forth with the apple of desire,
A tangled taste that takes a life to acquire;
Magic and nightshade in a mandrake stew,
I drink the nighttime herbs in a witch’s brew.
 
Seared in my skin like a tattoo of her name,
My cry has faded to a touch without shame;
Pulled by a thread that stains the earth and sky

Tomes

There is a section in my library for death
and another for Irish history,
a few shelves for the poetry of China and Japan,
and in the center a row of imperturbable reference books,
the ones you can turn to anytime,
when the night is going wrong
or when the day is full of empty promise.

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