smoke-stained letters

Cry, if you must. But do not bow your head, my neighbors.

No one chooses the hour of his death. Not when grief tightens its grip, not when the heart breaks quietly in the deep chambers of the soul.

A tyrant fouls his own backyard and calls it power. This is ride or die.

You cannot choose the moment. Only the manner.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

If we must fall, we fall standing.

Be alive. Alive, and only alive until the last breath leaves you.

Wind, carry their names. Do not soften.

Rise now, brother. Rise, soldier.

Freedom has always demanded blood.

They were molded together, bisected only to reunite.

Her eyes are shaped to see your face; her gaze is drawn to you as the moon draws the tide.

Her heart opens to your love.

She is a little bell tuned to a single tone, reverberating with your voice.

We resonate at the sound of her name.

I worship the sunrise in her form divine, my head bowed down in reverent respect, I pray that the sun sets between us beautifully.

maybe in another life, we could be a temple of a shared two bodies, twilight, upright, hand in hand.

Her mouth becomes melody, singing without words.

i wander, consuming her pleasure with, softly, as though she were a little butterfly.

much like a tremendous hunter. we surrender, together

shared in solemn silence pass the day. the doorway to mutual softness.

the glory and divinity, Love is the gift of life.