blackberrychampagne

Music of The Week-"the sound of my heart beating as I lay and wonder...."Is it true?"

What is true my darling?
Is it true that I love you with every inch of space in my heart? Is it true that every minute of my days and every second of my nights are occupied by the thought of you? Or that fate has led me to your arms and there is nothing in the world that can break me free from them? Is it that life's questions dwell in my heart, but the answers can only be found in your eyes? Is it true that I live every moment in want--in need of your love?

Ask me what is true Dear, and I will tell you a lifetime of mysteries. Ask me what is meant to be, and I will tell you the story of our souls. Ask me to go to the end of the earth with you, and I will surely follow wherever you lead me. Ask me. Question me. Challenge me. I am certain of these truths, as certain as my heartbeat. As certain as the Cross.

You tell me what is true, for I already know the contents of my own heart. Is it such as the sand on the shore or the stars in the sky? Is it that the moon and the stars and the planets all rotate around a small orb of sunlight? How can any of these trivial things be considered truth as long as I am loving you? They cannot be so. You--your love, your heart, your desire--I have found my truth! Truth does not exist if you do not exist.

I, myself would die to live in your heart. To dwell in your eyes. To obey your touch. To be your prayer sent up to Heaven. To fill every void inside.

The truth is that I live on the very edge of the world. Are you willing to live there with me?

My butterfly is tangled in its own cocoon, struggling to metamorphasize. I am still a caterpillar waiting for some sort of catalyst in my own life, causing my miraculous wings to burst through the outer shell into self-realization. Bring the wind, God of mercy and fear, I will gladly flutter in it, tossed about in its turrants like shreds of ornate paper mache. But I pray, Master of all that is good, bring me rain, bring me hail, shattering thunder, whirlwinds, and hurricanes. I cannot lift my eyes toward the sky, cannot praise your name in the breath of my words, or curse the earth and all its worldliness if you do not cast shadows over my brilliancy. I did not ask for my wings to be strong, vivid, or deceitful. I pray that my fraility will show through my paper-thin whispers of a being. Let the swallow and the raven wrap their arms around me. Let me dwell in this futile embrace. Though I be tattered and torn, I will rest in the comfort of the dew and the grass--the shame and the stronghold of my ambience. Lord, the petals of the lily seem more durable than I. Why are my petals so weak and worn? I am swallowed by life's delicate mouth, its pollen and nectar never tasted sweeter than to a battered butterfly.