Emotional attachment has this raptured prehistoric sumptuous strand,

Hyperbole taken to the mad max 
mayhem when necessary
to, poeticize, publicize,
exorcize, criticize, and alphabetize
desecrating, demeaning, dehumanizing,
online behavior by George
toward one run of the mill
on the floss (by the pond)

Swartley fosters by the same
granted coloration impossible mission
to shuck off and figuratively wash hands with
unlike a more clear cut matter as a quitclaim
evinced courtesy abracadabra
and "poof" the quandary resolved

When the night folds in, love becomes light—

‎a lantern burning in places where sight fails.

‎It whispers that blindness is not emptiness,

‎but a faith stitched into the unseen.

‎

‎Each breath feels braided with another’s,

‎woven tight through ache and radiance,

‎through the storm and the stillness—

‎a fabric both fragile and unbreakable.

‎

‎Love charts no straight line.

‎It is a map inked with destinations and detours,

‎with roads that vanish, only to return again,

‎like rivers remembering their course.

I wish this day had lasted much longer but  a new dawn is in sight

A wall of leaves, the sea of trees -
   A verdant blanket on the hills
That stretches out endlessly -
   Uninterrupted for miles.

My body wearies from travel;
   I'm of a strange territory.
I know something of you all
   But you don't recognize me.

Now I'm arrived for what I seek
   And could not expect afar.
Won't you be as kith - oh, trees -
   And provide me some shelter?