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It curves the mind, satiates the soul, makes the heart pound within ~ resounding in the ears. It loves, it pampers, it thrills, and frustrates.

It copes, but is uncertain how to cope.  Living in a time it should not know.  It holds on for another day, another tomorrow.

In it, is confusion:  it musters it up and squeezes it out.  It gives hope but banishes joy for an instant.

It lies in an emptiness where holes cannot be filled.  Where life tries to enter in, but only temporarily displaces it.


Because it cannot live and breathe on its own~we fill it, sustain it.  We fear enduring without it and know it cannot endure without us. 

Life may concede, recede, cease, but it seems it will drift on in infinity.  We have preserved it that much.  Given it that much sustenance and have breathed so much into it.

It can be a memory or a thought, but it feels like a life.  A constant.  A continuing echo.  Reverberating.  Reminding.  Consistent in fervor. 

We will not allow it to be disjointed:  In mind, in spirit, in our infallible heart.

The length of its endurance, we think we can master.  But it is foreboding, no matter our once in a while persistence to conjure up its death ~ disappearance. 

Its hold crushes, but not unlike our grip on its existence.  Fervent to not allow any resolve~ dissolve.  What if it were gone?  Where would our mind then go?  What would then fill that place?  A new tether?  A new vice.  One more sinister in its clutch?  Less empathic.

If we knew, perhaps we would not allow it to give way to new diversion.  But there is comfort in what it is now.  A breathing of air understood. 


It floods the veins and stirs it; tainted with hope.  Despair of what could be, what we thought should be, will not bring it out ~not make it truly alive again.  And yet, it still lives.

But if there is breath out there that can help us to sustain it, we will.  If there is a stirring of hope it can and does survive within another soul, we provoke it.  We cannot allow it to breathe its last, although knowing that for today, it provides little comfort.  But we hold on.  We dream on.  And by it, we live on. Impassioned.