Questors At The Heart

 

If somehow, love, in my terror of abandonement,
in the stress of the terrible din you bear,
our promise has suffered doubt, let it be
known, dragged into the arena, inspected,
  forgotten.

Though I might imagine a tamer passion,
a time in a world steered with simpler reins,
and you might in your slumber see yourself
with another in larger rooms, sunlight touching
  the tapestries,

I'm assured that should they be somewhere
our waiting could never find them
and our footings, dug with such effort,
would fill with the moss of regret, the sand
  of desolation.

Choice inherent in the bound-to-be, fate
in the hazard, we have cast ourselves together
to discover our significance in nature,
in history. We must be lovers at the base
  of elevation,

questors at the heart of the circle story,
travelers in the traffic where greeting meets
farewell, to be where we're at and want
what we have, sewn into the fluid fabric
  of understanding.