Homesickness
Is so easy to ignore
When there's homework
And dancing
But then one old hymn,
Sung at advent
In your mind,
Appears and suddenly
Home is very far away.
homesick I be not sick from my residence, or the distance from that which once was such I be not sick from the stuff of my house, my soul resides not in such material I be sick from my soul, given so readily to another, now far away
Oh how I long to be filled with her grace, to have my soul not so asunder yet light shines ever through the gaping hole of my heart, hope abreast shine forever more For I love, and loved am I and as such, never more must wary from despair I love, and love grows.
My heart lies far away, in the safest of keepings. She that is perfection I wish only that she could see. For I love, and am loved. Content must I be.
Perfection A myth they call it, Reserved for the Gods. Find in this no more truth than of a flat earth. Enlightenment some call it, To see the grace of divinity come down to earth.
Love is but a word, pallid in its simplicity. I love, thus that which I love is perfect, every fault another strength, Every day another closer.
Love scalds, divine beauty a mortals peril. But love grows, every pain another tie closer. I love, thus that which I love is perfect.
homesick
ReplyDeleteI be not sick from my residence,
or the distance from that which once was such
I be not sick from the stuff of my house,
my soul resides not in such material
I be sick from my soul, given so readily to another,
now far away
Oh how I long to be filled with her grace,
to have my soul not so asunder
yet light shines ever through the gaping hole of my heart,
hope abreast shine forever more
For I love,
and loved am I and as such,
never more must wary from despair
I love, and love grows.
My heart lies far away,
in the safest of keepings.
She that is perfection I wish only that she could see.
For I love, and am loved.
Content must I be.
I'm not perfect, cher. I have enough problems trying to get homework to be
DeletePerfection
DeleteA myth they call it,
Reserved for the Gods.
Find in this no more truth
than of a flat earth.
Enlightenment some call it,
To see the grace of divinity
come down to earth.
Love is but a word,
pallid in its simplicity.
I love, thus that which I love is perfect,
every fault another strength,
Every day another closer.
Love scalds,
divine beauty a mortals peril.
But love grows,
every pain another tie closer.
I love, thus that which I love is perfect.
By our divine God,
DeleteAnd by every love he gave,
I love you. Selah