photo from Pixabay
The Perfect Love
Not of the flowers, nor of the wilds, Not of the gentle streams, Not of the rainbows, On a clear blue sky, Not of the beauteous. It is but, a form of madness, A tumultuous sensation, That bridges the heart and mind, That takes one on a caravan of bumps and rides, On a journey of unearthing Of self and the “other.” The Perfect Love is within The folds of carelessness and sensitivity, Within the boundaries of Smiles and tears, Within the pounding of a heart’s sensible fears. There she goes, running, tripping falling, Her heart beating, Keeping in step, Her pace within the capricious intake of breath. Her mind unencumbered, There is that freedom of being in love. He wills it, even if her steps falter, His love binding, Even though the storms of his heartbeat. He waits, a vision of tenacity. THE END Nostalgia The shimmer of the setting sun glistens against crimson clouds, its façade, unblemished. The lighthouse stands regal, as a stoic witness. The waters create a contrasting veneer on an evening of nostalgia. Nothing can disturb its peace, not even eager tides beating against quiet sands. People have walked, embracing, on those tacit sands. There came an uprising, turbulent tides washed away remnants of a past, of a bygone era; where devoutly the setting sun danced with shadows on pristine waters, plagued thoughts, indulged in a panoramic composition of art and symphony, as the lighthouse watched the tides turn in its wakefulness.