No Title, Yet

Their sodality was revolution in its purest form...
Existence.
Like parallelogram's fingertips reaching for a distant lover on a kindred plane...
They abide like oil and vinegar...head banging and salsa dancing in glass confines while Bungee jumping into purity with dry rotted chords loosely dangling from ankles and limbs extended free bird and face down into a first date with bliss...
Beauty and blessing are neither created nor sustained on the backs of the passionless.
The demand for a supply of love of the real variety...
The kind that explodes like molten syrup from a maple tree
Makes necessary their encounters and void their fears...
Soothes like honey and hugs do...
And brings the kind of silence to their ponderings of doubt and indifference that is created only where noise and aversion do and cannot co-exist.