It scintillates at the cusp of sky,
Color-shifting and entrancingly nebulous,
Run through with the riddle of vapor and heat:
A wave-rippled and oasal truth-in-purpose.
Only the regretful eye might refract it a lie,
That it’s not real, what is there,
What has always been at the punishing verge
Of those who push knee past bloodied knee
Just to more self-sacrificially see
What secreted hope has already seen.
For it is real: artless love above preconception,
Beyond definition and kept condition,
Stripped of all gravity and utterly threadbare
Unto an unhesitant desire,
Erased of all history and earthly care,
A freed passion funneled into a column of fire,
Jutting like an obelisk from a featureless plane
To kiss the singularly indescribable star
Of everything we aren’t—but are.
On that horizon we have our strongest start;
No mirage dare maraud the footsure heart.
What was always at the punishing verge of those who push knee past bloodied knee...
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