Love is a fallen angel
with ever ascending wings, heavily captured
as it reaches out toward that lost infinity . . .
Her eyes and words
met mine, and she fell into herself,
although I could not ask why; the terror
of anticipation persists, above us,
a deep, all-permeating blue,
to soar . . .
Perhaps I overstate
for how easily, how willingly we fall in love.
My beliefs, my delicate conjectures,
they must expand . . .
Copyright 2014 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.