Love Poem

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Love is a shape not an object,
      a genre not a performance,
      theme without detail.
(We feel, not heed.)
As vines are to ancient walls,
      the heart sprawls, reaches
      for strength and certainty.
(We sublimate the fear . . . )
From the heavens comes warmth,
      comes cold glitter,
      alternating.
(Love.)
 
 

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