Our love is not of warm beams and golden hues,
Of ripe nights and sun-drenched dreams,
Our love is not one ‘tween plain ole lovers, whose
Love lies dormant in a quiet dense breeze, under
Canopies of lazy green it snoozes, breathing honey suckle
And scents of sickly sweet peach.
Our love lives in a dark-grey haze, where
Waves and waves of rain like darts
Transfix the ground and ripple with wind.
Our love, born and bred from fevers of the air,
Sweeps the world’s tempers to encase our twin souls.
A weightless rapture, a force of true love.
Alive and awake, it whistles with content, as it
Hums and drums the very walls of our hearts,
Dancing to the beat it birthed out of fits
Like gusts of rage, unrestrained yet pure.
So pure it whispers, secrets and songs,
Of truth and innocence, into, our tempest.