How impossible it is to purge
A love once it has found
A hole in the heart to serve
As anchor.
Hard when that harpoon, and the
Knowledge of it's fearful strike
Is known, truly, and yet
Kept at a
Distance
O'er the uncertainty of action
Of feeling, even when the
Feeling is recognized and known.
Am I Ahab hunting out of love?
Honestly I seek its culmination
Or its demise
Either would be a blessing
Though I'd far rather
Love made Manifest
Than the death and disenchantment
Of a pull so strong
So constant
And then gone.
But it is not gone
And fresh sightings
And earnest hints of promise
From a heart that
Cannot hide
And a mind that would.
And I am wishing I could prove
Myself as worthy
To the mind that
Reigns such heart
As cast that first harpoon.
So, I am Moby,
Then,
And Ahab.
And is she, too,
Ahab and Moby?
Yet it is a battle of love
On a sea of pain
And fear
And the deep
Unknown.
Storms of hope
And hope becalmed
That white whale
That albatross
That captain
That white hope
Would wave the
White flag,
But surrendering hope of
Love
Only birthed
Itself in surrender.
And hope yielded, but hid
A passion that would not die
And a yearning stronger than
The sea
Whose absence
Renders the tale
Ahab and Moby
To metaphors
Mundane.
And this is anything but mundane
And trying to accept what
Is
And what will be
That hope and love
Unburdened by truth
Would become the truth
And
Ahab and Moby
Would end a battle
That was love
To become love.
That the harpoon
Which is love
Might be reeled in
That the white whale
Might become the ship
And that together they might
Sail and
Perhaps
Fly.
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