Language meets its bound,

Human thoughts are ever so confined,
Let It stand where love is found,
A word, a calm, to what we’ve long defined.

It is not the fleeting touch,
Nor whispers shared in darkened rooms,
It’s not the weight of gold and such,
Nor fragrant scent of springtime blooms.

It is the quiet space between heartbeats,
The force that turns the night to day,
The endless rhythm that completes,
The very essence of the play.

From His vastness, He looks below,
And sees what It truly be,
Not just a feeling, ebb and flow,
But His own force, pure and free.

It’s not the shackles, chains, or binds,
But freedom, in its purest form,
A force that evermore reminds,
Of calm amidst the fiercest storm.

So when you seek what It is,
Look past the world’s deceiving haze,
For It’s the soul’s eternal bliss,
His enduring, unending gaze.