Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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Cloistered together, the concerns of all fall, rivulets yeild, as if against a knight’s shield, as if rain soaking rooftop, pooling runoff spilling this way and that behind these efforts, staining ground and conscience because regardless of others’ worry and circumstance, smiles here come easy, hands wander; kisses stolen and new day emboldened. Sunlight’s creamier, richer and warmer than before because that warmth, that richness, radiates from beside, not from distant nuclear swell but right here in devoted comfort, in a previously vacant space now extended, mind and body and soul, outward with planning; blueprint happiness stretched and smoothed across a shared bedspread, the corners held down by simple expectations and blessings as if matrimonial paperweights. And laugh! The blood of others and their strife are distant rifle cracks at dawn, the hunt for their happiness background to this endeavor at home. And sing! The world lives in these four corners, and along the edges, gutters collect misgivings and doubt. Because here is Camelot, spires striving high, ambitions dry from the spray of outside revolutions and strife, and a monarchy set to task; building, enjoying, sipping life wine and tasting the youthful vintage of familarity. And when night settles, plans are stowed under beds, in dresser drawers and on closet shelves with keepsakes, costumes and linens building that foundation of grand routine. Tasks float in and out of union and these grand lovers lay in their keep with sleepy eyes and satisfied hearts, listening to the nocturnal soughing of the other, dreaming, laying out next steps and awakening with kisses and gripped flesh, drawing strength from answered love and focus from steadied lust. To work! To tomorrow! May the battlements remain untested and shiny, like fine china in an inherited buffet; an adornment waiting to cautiously prove worth.
(at Vow of Monday)

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