A Time Capsule for my Love Restored

It was said, by a woman with the wisdom of the world like I will never know, that "Hope" is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul And sings the tune without the words And never stop–at all...It's been said that she knew the sapphic love of a woman true, though some would feign to deny such things, would level dirt atop something so beautiful, as if they could stop the sprouts and stalks of wild flowers from breaching the pretensive silence of ignorance that permeates the air of some climes (but not for long, as all foul weather is soon overcome by the boundless sun). But in the end, not dirt, nor sand, but fear is what locks our love away in the attics and basements, in the trunks and chests of our hearts—fear of pain and regret clog our chambers, our veins and arteries of their rightful natural flow that form the crossing rivers of life through our earthen soft bodies of light. I admit I was adrift—unsure whether what carried my numb and tired spirit was the river of life or the river Styx—when I spotted your beauty and light ashore, and you drew me, not as a lighthouse, but as a promise of a home for my weary soul.. Your genuine look, your butterfly eyes spoke to mine, and the fluttering in my country, that once I'd known, was certain had flown away long ago, carries me astride—first to the tips of my toes, and then...we float, an encircling courting dance, the Earth and the moon paying no mind to any orbit but that which draws them together in love. You are the dictate of my heavens, the mover of my body "s tides, the glowing face of the only cycle of love that I would ever dream to know for as long as the watcång stars, those sentimental, bleary, twinkling eyes, could stand to match the ever eclipsing brightening of our hope in love, restored.