The Mother Loom

Every time I try to write about you, it tumble-crumples down and out as one big cliche’.   These heavy hackneyed words that someone else has mouthed and slurred– and I hate it.  Because to me this is the most uncommon-and-uncouth uncut-diamond-in-the-rough Prometheus discovers fire for only the third time in his life.  And I hate the way everything I say feels like something someone else already said…

But then,
I think:

Maybe this is my inclusion into the great union of poets, all those pining’ rhyming fools striving to twist the written word to confess their undying love.   Each leaping from the shoulders of their predecessors, screaming “what I feel in my breast is original and unique!” but all unknowingly-sewing from the same machine, spouting one single woven fabric from the Mother Loom that ultimately all these iterations spill forth… some indelible swelling well-spring beneath humanity that is coursing and bubbling and brimming to the top with those same fathomless words whispered by so many, reverberating and echoing against the halls of mankind until they resonate in one voice, in one singular symphony, the words– I love you.

Because I do.

Neither first, nor last but somewhere smack dab in the great sea of humanity, are these blinking twinkling moments– of Me and You.

Bump it with:

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