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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