Being
There have always been books of love poems.
Rolling sonnets, speckled with
"let me counts" and "without-a-doubts,"
sounding similar to the ones on the pages before.
I never knew there could be so many ways
to say the same thing.
Though, I like it plain.
And I'm not quite sure that a rose
by any other name would still smell as sweet,
because the power of suggestion is impressive.
If I tell you that I hate you often enough,
perhaps, I could come to believe it.
But, probably not.
And sometimes,
the sky is white, or blue, or black. In all of this,
it remains the sky. I know it is.
Just as I know that when This is done;
when the wind is still and the horizon is invalid,
and death has come, and religion is through,
there WILL be God, and me,
and you.
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