And its kind

Do not hope to

touch and not be wet by it.

Fear the darkness of the depths,

and then desire to be desired

It is not given to choose

be consumed by it, if that be

It is a being, it knows

It is a vine, it needs to be held

firm but gentle like a molten glass

It may last only a season

but could drench you for life

be sure, it won't leave you dry

some are to be left in the in-betweens

untouched, untransformed

it should last only a glance

a quite presence nearby

it's vivid in those spaces

vividity is the best you get

an embrace may be the only reason

may even be the whole

Leave it there, never to go back

It has meaning no more no less

a careless thought if you let it be,

or tactile pleasure of an unknown scar

eighteen months is a life

It is, but will never the same that it was

embrace it, snuggle with it, look it in the eye

know it, but by another name

It was a flint that warmed you

Marvel the marble it is. Sculpt it.

Many will die without kissing another mouth

Without holding another face in the palm

Some will, dry on the shores, undecided

Drowning in the doubts that troubled their dreams

In the end, it's just another life

Unrealized, parched, unexpressed, befuddled

It is Ithaca, you will have nothing to take away

You may leave shreds to pick up in a different time

May be on 'a pilgrimage to earth’, Simon will

He will find one of its kinds, but not it

And then he will know the legend

It is in the kinds and never the whole

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