I’ve heard that love is a verb.
And so it is. It is a verb, never a noun.
Love is in doing.
And once done, is not.
—
The past is a victim of the present.
Dead under a weight of being,
No longer of the world, but of our figments.
It is unreal.
—
Hell is relegated to the past,
It is regret.
Hell is distance from God,
The divide widens for the relentlessness of now.
—
A memory, a thought of love is sweet,
but is not the thing itself.
A shadow of the living.
Love is alive or is not love.
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Humanity grasps at activity,
And it slips through fingers with the present,
Born ceaselessly beyond.
We do and are undone at once.
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Like love, wisdom has life now and never then and never then.
It is sand sifted through the cracks in our hold.
We do and know and understand,
We did and remember and lose grip.
—
The present is divine,
all-knowing, all-loving.
It is a thing, the only thing.
Leave the gerunds behind.
—
God is present,
Impossibly solid.
He alone is and does.
Love and wisdom are his.
—
The present is divine,
And in its likeness we have been made.
Go and do, likewise.
And when they wonder at how, why, what, and who,
Your answer will ever be.
I Am.