Love's first light is subtle, as the last vestige of night
That leaps and falls in shadow at the edges of my sight.
It catches unaware, a glimmer; silver-blue, half-seen;
Stray thoughts, and softly-lit, that have the semblance of dream.
It stirs in hearts grown cold with age, or calloused by abuse
The hope that hearts yet recognize in innocence and truth.
Love's light is next a firestorm, a crimson gale of flame,
Unsated by the force of will, or piety, or shame:
Inferno, fueled by passion, and the promise of the young,
Forever lit in dream, and sworn in blood, and soul, and tongue.
It's Fire! War! Posessiveness! It's Hunger, Lust, and Greed!
No song is sweet, no words suffice, to tell its depth or need!
Love's light, at last, is soft and warm, a comfort in our age,
Aglow with simple Trust, it knows not Jealousy or Rage.
And now, the embers dim, and fade; and now, they blaze, and burn;
Love's light, at last, requires much, but gives much in return.
And so, how near is God to man? How nearly man divine?
How nearer still, when disparate lives as ours become entwined? |
