When boundless love cannot be full expressed
through hands and words and gestures of the heart —
when skin and soul aren’t there to be caressed —
a vacuum grows, and life is lived apart.
To question why one should be in this state,
enrobed in flesh and orphaned without source,
will yield some startling answers arrowed straight
between your eyes to hit you with full force.
Exploding loveness then goes absolute
in longingful magnetic mindly ways.
For skin is always just a substitute —
a second-best and strictly 3-D craze.
Such yearning fosters grief and loss in some.
But on my knees to God with tears I come.
© Alan Morrison, 2018
There is no Autumn in my fertile heart,
where nothing falls but must ascend like heat.
My greensome coloured leaves do not depart
from twigs and branches. Summer’s not complete.
No frost can come my way to freeze the dew.
The crops sown in my fields no harvest need.
For melancholy moments now are few
and flowers in my soul won’t “go to seed”.