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Of The Impulse



Who is to say I did not love what I loved,
that I did not love?
I loved so much and so many.
I loved believing I was loved—
it has been the only thing
that I've believed on insufficient evidence.
But if no one benefitted from my love
(I benefitted from my love),
was it a meaningless and insignificant indulgence?
And, if so, is that shameful or contemptible,
or could it be that it is okay,
in the way that the sun shines equally
upon the leaf and the nut, both expressions
of the impulse to exist, to regard, to profess?

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.