oozing from between my lips.
Honey, nectar of the diction’s sphere,
a poetic coating for an amorous kiss.
Love: be it known from afar;
love: be it caught in a jar;
we are but fireflies – tenderly dancing in the night,
hand in hand down the boulevard of life,
wandering, waiting, wondering,
yet never a care for the time entire.
Dust in the winds of impermanence,
they strike the mandala and never miss.
Truth notwithstanding, the love remains:
happiness infinite, as are the pains.
03/28/2015, Tony Blau Veldt