This bridge, this water streaked with light, images of decay descend into the depths,
the water holds it's beauty
the way you are held by life, the way embers of being, shine out in the evening.
Gulls circle the lake, the glinting light, are their cries any more real than what I
would cry?
Words mean so little against loneliness, yet we search for words, as if they alone
could counteract life.
1 comment:
I have had authors affect me like this too. Not familiar with Boehme, though...
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