The Mystery That She Is

Whatever words you can speak of Her,
Are no more than sounds,
Echoing through The Mystery that She is.

Whatever image you may hold of Her,
Is mere imagination,
Appearing within The Mystery that She is.

Whatever concepts the mind births,
Are mere apparitions,
Conceived within The Mystery that She is.

But… the Longing in your Heart,
That ache, more ancient than time,
That, my friend, is Real.

For it does not arise from you,
Being a Gift of Love, immeasurable,
Place there by The Beloved Herself.

Unspoken.
Unseen.
Beyond conception.

A Perfume, lingering, of Unutterable Beauty,
A heartbreaking memory of Love known,
And then, tragically forgotten.

A Longing that will, in time,
Carry you beyond time,
Where word, image, and concept, cannot go.

A Longing that will Blossom within you,
Until The Mystery that She is,
Becomes inseparable from, Shining within…

The Mystery that you are.