Black ink and sunbeams poetry

They say

life is like a circle,

full of joy and of sorrow,

eternal as your

never ending story,

what then, do they say of love?

Intimate, visceral, brighter than

fire and more quiet than

the ember resting in the ashes

preluding rebirth, soon

but not yet forgotten

who can say,

when tomorrow is written

and rewritten with every brushstroke,

every torn and discarded painting, with every

poem offered reverently upon

the alter of

Hope