He who is made manifest in
the emancipation of things;
the songs with simple words
that speak of inner beauty;
the grass blades wiggling
lazily in the sunshine;
the crawling pace of traffic
in the afternoon before sunset;
the mesmerizing chirps of
night's symphony in the yard.
Her thoughts, like the crimson
blood in a chalice about to meet
the lips of a high priest,
crawl across the expanse of
indigo hoping to discover
some wonderment, immense and
intense, that no words can
come close in description.
He with the ease of setting sun,
with the charms of sedate moon,
with a heart that sings only
the songs that begin in the middle
and circle back to the end, giving
out an invite to his world.
She, an unaccustomed traveler,
cannot resist his cajoling,
whereas she shines like a star
with no reserve, and only for him.
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