These places exist if we open their doors,
too busy, so afraid, of letting go.
‘My anxiety is nothing like yours;’
sweeping strands become my complacent throes
like winds scream, thunders a prejudice grasp –
Our minds are often sinewy chasms.
When eyes behold our sweet real lives a hasp,
held out hands, breezy thrills, soft orgasms
of heart felt love in the kindness of dreams.
Crawl, explore … a constant lonely surface
of fear persists, always alive it seems.
Shine in torrential rains, alive we face
soft music sharp awaits with beckoned cry:
sooth, glide, strive for love, forget about why.