Drawn Nigh to my Bosom

There is no greater pain, no greater estrangement from sanity, than the piercing daggers of love refrained. When he yet loved ignores or even lies ignorant of that very love you feel, he may very well draw himself nigh unto thy bosom in need of comfort or even in the blissful tenderness of slumber. In such a moment a woman must begin to feebly ponder the possibility of a hidden love, that may still reside, unfound, in your other's subconsciousness. And, to smell his scent, so closely to thy face and heart stirs a rippling process that can ne'er be ended without the destruction of ignorance, and then the embracing of feelings past and continually felt. For past can blend to future, and then meld into the present, that all in betweens disappear into a nothing--a nothing more quieted than any Christmas mouse--most likely because it is not fabled, and rather happens as a daily occurrence in the eternal round we fondly refer to as mortality. What is mortality without the mysteries of life, that daily tear us between the woes of pain and joy that we might appreciate the severity and blissful divinity in both emotions?