When we are in love
A poem by Rowan Blair Colver
Image - The Stage of Dreams by Mueller-Stahl
When we are in love,
It is like a thorn,
We feel it,
Intense pressure,
And yet the aroma,
Is so perfect,
The sensation of becoming,
One,
Is so dreamy,
And disassociated,
That we really enjoy it,
And so however deep,
Intimate and open,
The love grows,
No matter how they are,
Regardless of the colour of their heart,
You become pierced,
By a splintering of their soul,
It is cherished,
At the time it feels like you are suddenly whole,
Then if it touches you,
Right where you are one,
It can never be undone,
You may learn,
You may travel and for another yearn,
And yet if that connection was true,,
Since it was broken off and torn away,
A section remains,
Inside of you,
And it resonates,
In the wound on your heart,
Jumps and shakes as its owner,
Is felt from the start,
And if the wound is fresh,
If it still remains unstitched,
If it was mortal,
It begins to weep.
So time is a given,
Provide warmth and self care,
For as long as you need,
Hold yourself tight in there,
I know it is painful,
Lonely and cold,
But a hand with a splinter,
Is no fun to hold.
A poem by Rowan Blair Colver
Image - The Stage of Dreams by Mueller-Stahl
A poem by Rowan Blair Colver
Image - The Stage of Dreams by Mueller-Stahl
When we are in love,
It is like a thorn,
We feel it,
Intense pressure,
And yet the aroma,
Is so perfect,
The sensation of becoming,
One,
Is so dreamy,
And disassociated,
That we really enjoy it,
And so however deep,
Intimate and open,
The love grows,
No matter how they are,
Regardless of the colour of their heart,
You become pierced,
By a splintering of their soul,
It is cherished,
At the time it feels like you are suddenly whole,
Then if it touches you,
Right where you are one,
It can never be undone,
You may learn,
You may travel and for another yearn,
And yet if that connection was true,,
Since it was broken off and torn away,
A section remains,
Inside of you,
And it resonates,
In the wound on your heart,
Jumps and shakes as its owner,
Is felt from the start,
And if the wound is fresh,
If it still remains unstitched,
If it was mortal,
It begins to weep.
So time is a given,
Provide warmth and self care,
For as long as you need,
Hold yourself tight in there,
I know it is painful,
Lonely and cold,
But a hand with a splinter,
Is no fun to hold.
A poem by Rowan Blair Colver
Image - The Stage of Dreams by Mueller-Stahl
