This Love.

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Joy, beautiful spark of divinity.” ~ Ludwig van Beethoven via poetry by Friedrich Schiller

This Love.

This love, torturing me. Moving my tender heart ceaselessly with its exquisitely painful, yet beautiful song.

This love, a chorus of sirens so hauntingly lovely upon approach, I must lower the sails to listen, even as their bittersweet requiem will surely kill my yearning soul with pleasure.

This love, a lilting, candlelit nocturne to who-knows-where we will be led next.

This love, softer than a cloud caressing herself until a new arrangement is made, a single movement at a time.

This love, resembling a score of waves lead by the moon as the sea, herself, laps blissfully against my skin.

This love, an ever teasing, solo mirage in this vast, heartbreakingly beautiful pastoral of Painted Desert sands.

This love, a choir of shifting stars and seas and sands in which I would willingly surrender to drown in.

This love, that itches so intensely that composure becomes impossible to feign.

This love, so pitch perfect, any conductor would gladly give over the gift of play to the musicians alone by way of blessed clasped hands and closed eyes of pleasure.

This love. This love. Abundant and varied in harmonious interludes.

May the breathtaking ache of our symphony’s crescendos stretching towards the heavens never result in a standing ovation of an audience of angels. Let their knees be too weak from hearing our sways.

An Ode to Joy!—Forevermore replay!

Oh yes. I say yes please.

To this love.

 

Photo: Wickimedia

3 thoughts on “This Love.

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