Lost is the man who never loved
Who neither knew its color, nor its shape,
Nor its voice when it beckoned to his heart;
Which never stretched for he never searched,
So he never felt it when she kicked him in the chest with art.
And when he woke to a missing rib upon the sand
He, for the love of God could never figure why.
Why she turned so mad,
What she yearned so bad,
Or why on earth she left outburst and crying.
Now awakened to the darkness of regret
He strains to find his footing and the arms in which he once began this great ascent.
But love is the light that left while he slept.
~ Bongo
Still Water Reeds 