There is no such love

There is no such praise as praise for love
perfected. When, in the vast antiquity
of our lives have we, plump with all
we’ve gained, not dug in the ruins
of our understanding to unearth the fragile
secrets of our hearts such that in the old
stone mills of us, crushed then
with some abandon, some pot to be held
as whole and still shaped to capture rain.

Would it be that there is no such pot,
no such vessel to hold as infant to the sun,
complete and without fracture.
Take then a tear into your palm and drink,
for all that is salvaged is loss.
There is no such praise as praise for love
perfected. There is no such love. Praise
the love that has been broken, buried
beneath the sand, yet whole in its array.

Image: Oshin Khandelwal on Unsplash

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