The Wounds of Love

I totter, my love—inflicted by such affection. For you dare to
Paint the future. Thus needled within, I flit and soar, alive in
My darkest anguish. How shall I measure immortal love—as
Tangible as the faceless? Thus I perish aflame, aware of my
Deficit. And death, the sweetest resurrection. Wherefore
Life, portrait of dreams, a flaming illusion. But oh the joy of
Such inflection. It seeps beneath the marrow, revving the
Soul. Whereby captured, webbed in trepidation, I float, aloft
A stream. And my love, aglow with pain, filled with joy.
Thus love, as radiant as sunlight, etching both soul and spirit.  
Wherefore the heart, torn asunder, a puddle of tears. But
Such is the lot of faith. Whereby belief, a raging torch, a
Moving paradox. Thus we shimmer in anguish, unto the
Final trumpet. And we love unto the death of our Lord.