there is but only one (thirst)

Within your chest
Passion is born
Only when the heart
Is, inside, purely free,
So see how good art
Is just like a sweet key
To open up:

Imagine its direction,
Flying, swimming, immersed,
Filled to capacity
With love,
Constant in its voice and turning,
Yearning for endlessness
With the breadth of friendly breaths,
Tied down on a path to heaven
Were it only not for that weave,
That world of words wound,
The answers in question, wrapped,
Multitudes of rudimentary
Corpuscles stretching forth, forward,
In time, like vines of honor
With roots of golden fruit,
Tender in their song, longing
For a worthy, earthly ear
To set them high in sight,
Away from wayward whims,
Whetting appetites in indecisive

Diversions, upsetting, out-letting
The love or leaving it sealed,
Suffocating, self-abrogating,
Stretched out as thin as a pin
Moments from ballooned frustrations,
Hot with heavy airs,
Unsinkable,
Left to the mercy of the winds,
And sharp edges of the earth,
Innocent and ready-green
For blood and water, exuding,
Filling souls and soil, parched,
Trodden and un-trodden,
Till a new day comes rushing,
Urging, out the old and up
The each new, brave, bold beats
To entreat well and tell
Of all that they do sure find—
Going slow, racing, or taking time,
Both ways before they cross.

Paths are so puny,
Puffed or given out,
All entangled, high-spun,
If we forget where we started,
Even best friends come undone,
Being so near, and yet parted,
Without fair say.

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