This is not the poem
I wrote for you.
This is the poem
I wrote for another before,
Whose beauty outstrips her self,
Whose will to heal can't hide,
Whose trust knows no doubt,
Whose love holds no guile,
Whose animal sense knows
If I veer towards untruth,
Whose joy is still unbounded
For all the pain of life,
Whose open raw uncertainty
Is put into my care,
Whose cheek disarms my pride
But makes me proud to be,
Whose being stirs in me
This absolute calm certainty,
Transcending excitement
And making the chase
A stroll through fire and swamp,
As if I have no sense,
Too focused for the pain.
This is not that poem:
That may be another.
It may not be a poem:
It may just be.
