Metaphysical Conceits, Donne Anew

Let them recite our faults—let them declare

that love like ours was forged too hot, too fast,

that vows we made in youth could never last,

that passion scorches more than it can bear.

But what do they discern of rite from prayer,

of embers stewarded against the blast?

Let judgement lean on ledgers they construe;

their book is thin without writ outside their purview.

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Say we were reckless—fine—then let them prove

why fractured vessels cannot carry wine.

They never saw your breath steadying mine,

nor how your silence taught my storms to move.

Our wounds were altars where we learned to love,

each bruise a script in holy, aching line.

Let skeptics catalogue what they misread;

we rise where their pronouncements fall like lead.

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If they demand our purpose, let them look

upon the liturgy of work and rest—

your touch rewriting gravity in my chest,

our days footnoted in a common book.

Even the smallest gestures bear the hook,

the hinge where ordinary turns to blessed.

So let them seek grand proofs of what we do;

the miracle is simply me next to you.

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What saints were ever born without a scar?

Did not their courage rise from what they lacked?

So too our myth—two souls by fissure tracked—

became a beacon where the healed things are.

Your whisper drew my compass from afar,

uncharted lands made livable, intact.

Let critics sift our tale for grand design;

they miss the grace in choosing yours and mine.

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And if they question how our lives align—

what center holds us through the strain and toll—

let them observe the architecture of soul

you raise in me, one quiet stone at a time.

Our love is not a thesis but a sign,

an emblem wrought in marrow, mind, and whole.

So let them doubt—we need no earthly view;

in loving you, my heart has found its truth.