Letter XXII

Our fate is but our choice.
That makes us none but gods.
Our Love is but a voice.
That makes us none but God’s.
—A voice of mutual belonging
of wonders, thriving, thronging
in the hearts of each of us.
Of all the world, just us
whose choices make us yearn,
& with every tide & arms-open-wide, we burn
in the ardent taste of knowing us, tasting us—& Love
Who we are, were, & will be.
Our choices are but ours—thee & me.
Those choices, we choose, choose who we are.
Yet if we chose us each, no longer are we far.

Our choices are but voices,
that whispers in nights of indolence
filling the void of a solitary silence.
A void as death, but vivid is that breath,
that hums the songs of freedom’s pledge.
Thrusting Life unto the edge.

There, have I ceased subserving.
For, choosing, submitting, & serving.
& my choice will not only choose you.
It chooses how you’ll be,
who’ll be us, who’ll be me?
& deep our choices blend;
A triumph mingled with defeat.
Such a surrender so sweet
No freedom can transcend.

Our fate is but our choice.
& faith always I’ll choose.
A faith into our fate
each path, crossroad, or gate;
Surviving joy & blues.
Submission is the choice,
As I evermore rejoice,
To submit to our faith;
A faith into our fate.
A faith into our choice…


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