Fountaintip

أَعُوذُ بِٱللَّهِ مِنَ ٱلشَّيۡطَٰنِ ٱلرَّجِيمِ، بِسْمِ اللهِ الرَّحْمٰنِ الرَّحِيْمِ

some fountains are made in pens, and some fountains trickle from the neck, whether lyrical or literal, such is the nature of my depiction, trying to bridge the distance of selves with any means imaginable. whether with fangs or barrels, in the hand or in both arms cradled, the ink runs deep in every instance, intended to serve as fuel for my beacons when life drains their quintessence, trying to deprive of cares and make us as feelingless as the masses. i have a hunch this serves part of His purpose, in making my ocean freshwater instead of salted, to be for my beloved something cooler and refreshing. though i wish i could see you smile, and know that purpose fulfilled, i accept some blessings are too grand of treasures for me to witness before their time approaches, fully ready and measured, infinitely grand as the lights that kept this soul tethered. 

perhaps the fountain i most look forward to, amongst our Gardens' waterfalls and geysers, soaking you in the fullest, the laughing and splashing, carefree pleasure of a time free of worry while inundated in glee, relishing longing as a cup met and filled and overflown, until bliss is what we're convinced of, the only state we've ever known.