We long for connections, intersections, kisses;
spaces between our fears and acceptance, between
the unknown and the richness of knowledge so
deep we cannot comprehend its wingspan.
We long for beauty in the absence of truth.

Modesty tells us to hide our lust and our envy,
but that thirst flows for miles beneath desire,
washing the channels of the forbidden with
rivers of purity and rip tides of coarse
hopes that strip us of our decency.

We yearn for answers buried beneath lies,
ideas stolen and sold into slavery by rugged
sailors whose ships crashed against the rocks
before their daughters were born to mothers
wishing beyond hope for faithful husbands.

At the root of it all, at the fountainhead of the spring,
our incomprehension of the world around us is what
dictates our unhappiness and spins our days into yarn.
We weave our dismay into regret, scripting
the wool of desolate oblivion into our lives.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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