Go, they say, for the return of this love,
Everything is in everything they say,
Yet, what is it all, I still miss?

They’ll give you less hope, in it’s return,
It’s mine, not yours, I still miss,
All that lasts is in the choice, in what’s been chosen.

If you are so different than I, but the dream the same,
What’s the most I could give, I should measure for you,
I’ll see then how far away it could be received.

I find it more to give, for even a little,
Nothing of everything grows without first;
The love for it,
The love in it,
The love still there,
Who are you in this life that even finds it?

©2007, Ron Globe