The wind breathes life into her vessel,
A divine temple; impenetrable by her spirit alone.
I wonder if the force of Love is her only kryptonite,
A lonesome sentiment of jaded benevolence that Love is.
Love is a consumer,
An overwhelming rushed experience–
All at once, it can become you.
She embodies it, though it is her weakness.
She wears Love on the palms of her hands when you grab them,
On the back of her neck when you kiss it,
And it rests in-between her shoulder blades, it’s called
The Love in her sternum.
She leaves the fire of Love unscathed,
Then begins to wade the waters of abundance–
She ascends drenched in Gold.
I ask her how she does it,
“Always keep enough Love to fit in your own pocket, don’t give it all away.”
– Love, not in its finest hour