Romance

We are told that the words we speak will be used against us in judgment… We shall have to look over our written and spoken records. Silence. It would have been preferred. But when words failed me, I acted in violence. I acted on impulse. I reacted. This psychological conundrum catalyzed a revolutionary struggle within me. The innate desire for protection and warmth is one thing. The innermost desire to attack is another. But why attack? In the face of apparent danger, one mi

Spiral in control. We have spoken of the loveliness of long-suffering; of the sweats and heaves of love. We speak of things merely touched down below; a shadow of heavenly things to come. We sigh and bemoan unlikely burdens until finally we unleash a single claw. Through the claw, we see red. They flogged Him. I love to speak things of romance; of things sly and wise; of harmless good; of a God who calls Himself Jealous and Love. I'd sink into his heart and love Him more dear

To find a compass and to increase the temperature. I am in tears. The vast storehouse of eternity stands before me and I weep. Oh, that goodness of God! — as in a starry host, a mystical whispering cloud, a book of life. For years have I thought myself dead, but today I kneel alive. Alive! as in the shout of triumph. Alive! as in a song. Alive! as in a rapture of joy and thanksgiving. When I took of the fruit, I seduced my husband. When I indecently fell upon my knees, I gave

His name was Salemn, and its meaning was Prince of God, a peaceful sound, a solemn sound. He had curly hair that sat upon his clavicle, buckled around itself, like clouds. I first saw him in a dream, like words hanging in the atmosphere, shaped like the stars that form a constellation, spelling solemnity and quietude. His voice was gentle as the morning and evening sea, but I saw him as a wet lion, drenched at the paws. I fell in love deeply. He had an arousing figure. His wo

Mine heart hath hands, with digits extending forth from the cage wherewith she is held, through the open parts, out of my chest. A warm embrace, she’d hope, but attaching onto nothing but the spirit of a Man whom she has yet to touch. My fingers should be warm, or must be cold. I am paint; a stain from the valve of a dissection from Adam’s side, though I know not where he is. Perhaps the other should inform me, and His mouth is sweet, a composition of letters meant to create