a tired heart

The will of love
clears my path,
as stroll beneath
its shade,
amid meadows
of distraction,
beside lakes
of longing,
I am ever led
to reach into
pounding crash of
shoreline breakers.
And thence, bear
witness over the
turn of tide.

Life itself, a poetry
which writes
within us,
where it will,
as it will.
Much beyond
sentient bidding,
it bleeds
from our
very hearts.