Maybe a misunderstanding,

Or perhaps something more deliberate.

The simple, authentic soul keeps the truth clean,

Avoiding the avoidance,

and excuses,

Never dealing underhand.

But humble transparency in all.

Only then, can love emerge.

Desire is not the river,

But the current,

Drawing us into the eddies and still backwaters filled,

With self or joy.

Dependent on its source.

Hours are spent staring into the blackness,

And shapes emerge.

Shapes needing clothing, nourishment, warmth,

But most of all human love.

They cannot be ignored.

Unless you leave love behind.