Love never promised
to span rivers,
two people standing
on the edge of separate
banks with a handful of
hope but no swimming lessons,
pebble promises stuck
in the heels of our shoes.
I would tie cinder blocks
to my heart if it could
part the water and grant
you safe passage…
Today, T.R.O.U. celebrates its second anniversary. Thanks so much for joining me on this journey toward inclusion and diversity in love stories. I feel that we have made a difference in the world, one little love story at a time.
‘Soft, For the Music Dies.’
Soft, for the music dies within this room
Where once the bridge that Heaven sings
to man, returning him to grace,
is an empty space.
Soft, for music never silenced never can return
and we the living must, its passing mourn
sighing in the gloom.
Soft, still within the silence lives the love
he crafted here upon an earthly stave;
the song, moon slivered nights and sunscaped days.
Soft, threading memory stakes the muted claim
which we, the living, tearful, bear the blame
denial of our grave.
Soft. Dying music’s timbre strikes the note
discordant; chaos bring the age of truth
to him; returns all harmony and places times innocence.
Soft, here lies the living ache, seek the dawn of melodies.
Each day his love reborn sustains undying hopes.