FairWriter

Lack of closeness is pressing against her, as she lies alone. In the midst of evening’s thick, black cloud she muses. Now that the night is summoned and she rests in deep stillness, what reply will He give? Under covers and under her veils, she hides from the world. She pauses to revel in the distance of her lover. “You are fair, a delight, and loyal,” He responds. Her nature fights against such claims. She replies with truth, “I, in my love am stubborn and pressing advantage with pure seduction. What bitter shame.” Come, her heart beckons Him, but still he presses His need to be away. How selfish she is, but so pleasantly. She coils up into a ball and convinces herself that He will be fragile. Can her impatient longing quicken His pace? Surely His reply wouldn't bring disgrace! Her despairing sigh in the night is given the same answer. No hope of aroused completion. His voice, firm, fixed, and longing. “I must prepare a place. I have many delights to give you. I must prepare a pla

Hasty is my soul. I confess, impatient my whole being. This stubborn craving is ever cleaving. This desire, never leaving. Eternal cry be satisfied or be silent. I survive this panting, Endure this earthly breathing, I pause and plead for perception. As I exist in the midst of Him, who never leaves or forsakes, I settle once more for the unseen and my heart aches. Soul, admit to this grief. Groan, responds to this vexing veil. Spirit, perceive what present observations are failing. Will He return in tangible beauty suddenly? Attending to my want with severe appearing? What has held this violent force captive that it hides? Contained this affection? May it arrive. Who am I that I darken His beauty, halt His astounding? How I long to weep and wail at nail pierced hands. To burn all lofty idols that have failed to describe Him. To chastise those who deny Him. To burn and chastise myself. Hasten the End of me. Hasten the End.