Silly Socks

And who creates all things if not God, everything horrible, horrendous, male and female and good and kind and noble, if not God, then who can tell me: Who?
Who controls the world: Who are the ones you call they?

It's you, it's always been you throughout eons.
You have entertained the masses with free verses and versions of you.
Why do we vibrate through your presence? Is it perhaps your smile or your kind, glowing eyes, behind the counter. The antithesis of lies.

Is it that we, poets, rant about spies? How the impossible becomes real and reality becomes your eyes?
I feel, I speak, I dream. The dream that dreamers have about mortals in heaven, when we lost Eden.
About enchanted mortals, about the heavenly bodies dancing to the unknown rhythm—we call love.

That felling we have but can't be written in plain savant words, that hidden ancient and mystical truths we can't comprehend, for it is written in the stars. Not on mobile devices, nor in controlled circuits or modern modems, but embedded in the human shadow in heaven.

That is the essence of our being.
To discover that: Which was lost.
To embrace the human spirit, to believe and to love.
Tender and obscure as the shadow of you,
As the atoms of your skin,
As the light of your eyes,
As the gift of candle lights,
As the funny sooks you wear,
And as the curves of your western smile,
As the details of your body,
And even as the fear you feel,
When passion and love feels near.

You believe that you can feel, believe that you can touch, but those can't be written on sticky notes. Candles and silly socks can always be found, but darling Love and Dead can't be found; they always arrive unannounced, like candles and silly socks.