Never far from my thoughts, a circuitous route with a dead end of false comfort;
Such strong hands, supple form, deep eyes and I am awash again with such longing.
God, my end, Omega, this temple is temporary and انا نسى مرارا
Not always, but often, enough that I wonder whose mind I have, the one of promise or the one of flesh. To persist decades in a "not yet, yet to be" escalates precariously and only by divine intervention is there a relent from toppling.
Collapsing inwardly into a deeper surrender, the seed that died keeps dying.
The hope born again to keep arising.
