reckerson

Shining light when I first saw your eyes, my love. An angel, my heart you did occupy, love. We are two wandering halves of the same soul who are desiring to reunify love. Some men give cities, bodies, and spirit, but for you I'd give love another try, love. God's plan is perfect, and it is his to know; how could I know you yet your love deny, love? You plant your kisses with soft rose petal lips on my lips and whisper your lullaby, love. Your fingertips touch the beating of my heart in whose rhythm you can identify love. At night, while you sleep, I hold you close to me, praying to God, he who does sanctify love. Though in some months I will be leaving this place, the distance serves only to amplify love. Though the stars cannot be seen during the day, in darkness their light does intensify, love. Like the songs I sing and the roses you give, a love like ours exists to testify love. If love moves your hero's heart to write these words, may God move the pen to orchestrate my

I think it's a sickness: poetry. It's contagious, incurable, and it seems to only affect a select group. Others seem immune, unphased, unshaken. They can't get their head around it. They can't hear it. They can't feel it. To them, it's words on a page. Scribbles. Wasted ink. For me and my fellow lepers, it's all too real.