I am at the least romantic place.
Sitting outside by Timmy Horton’s,
Eating perfectly baked donut,
Soaked in butter.
I am getting fat on low vibration
Sugar glazed, flour made apple fritter.
But look at Van Gogh’s “Potato Eaters”.
No broccoli dish in sight.
Family gathered at the dinner table
Under the dimmed oil lamp.
Dressed in simple, yet clean clothes.
The woman is holding a tea pot in her hand, pouring some tea into man’s cup.
He stretches his hand towards her,
Holding potato in offering gesture.
It’s not perfect life.
Poverty and hard times are etched
Into their stern looking faces.
Potato, the main source of nourishment,
The family table, and the dimmed light,
Hold them together in love.
Love is the healer.
And Vincent poured all that love into
“Potato Eaters” masterpiece.
I know you have been trying hard to forget me and I have been doing the same
The cat walked by and meowed
“But it’s no worky”
Twin flames in physical separation
Are never apart.
I can feel the warmth
Coming from our flame.
As long as our hearts are joined,
It’s warm and joyous.
But when the ego gets hold of us,
The wild beast escapes the captivity
And roams through the jungle,
Destroys everything and burns into ashes.
It’s such madness.
I look around at the bare landscape.
It’s cold outside,
But I can still see some embers
Scattered in the forest.
Quick! Ignite the flame of love!
Remember who we are.
The bells are ringing,
Calling twins to unite.
Common, enough of wandering in the wild.
Let’s go home
Where we came from.