Love and Pride ~

Through death, life is wrought-
And through our pain, and tears, and sorrows,
Joy is often nurtured.

We are the bearers of joy,
When hope is crushed-
Like a wilted flower beneath the rock,
We find that it grows,
Germinating, in the unseen crevices of the sand.

When happiness cannot be found,
And a sudden rain pours down-
Rushing through our minds, our hearts, our thoughts,
We reach down and pluck,
Its tiny flower from its bed,
And notice its abundant siblings,
Growing in a luscious patch.

It grows like family, in abundance,
But we must look so hard to see t-
Because, through the tremendous sorrow,
The heavy torrents of pain-
We are being drenched so well,
And it washes them away,
Like flowers in the sand-

Dashed against our hopes-
These rocks, become our daily sorrows,
Heavy as they lay upon these buds-
Destined to become flowers of love.

Flowers of love scattered nigh,
Like fissures in our minds,
Which we, as selfish beings seek to hide,
And shoulder in the nook-
Of our structured, layered walls of pride
A bed of rocks that cave ’round-
Any inkling of this life-form
Making no room for love to grow,
There in its bed.

Love can be found,
Only in the tiny clouds of thought,
Which escape from layers of the rock,
And drift toward a better place,
On which, in our hearts a piece ahead-
Something soft they settle.

Although we are so blind,
We can sometimes see into this place,
Which to us seems a closed chamber-
More often than not a garden that’s secret,
In which Love lingers sadly-

Waiting for the sunlight to come and revive-
It’s germinating buds-
Which our Pride has so often kept,
In its structured layers,
Time and again, over and over,
As it attempted escape in the past-
When love was dashed against its tower.

And now,
As pride attempts once more to hold it,
To put it aside with force of will-
I call out screaming . . .

My hands are raised- I am running this time-
Begging Pride to hold its gates-
To keep them open, and let Love escape.

Running . . .
Running . . .
Running . . .