Definitions by From Saint Agnes to Egypt
345
The touch of masculinity
clothed in white cotton,
blended with the fragrance
of warm bread.
A profound peace
from a presence
that no longer requires a form.
I smile
where all symbols
converge into a single meaning—
a confirmation of your presence:
warm,
tender,
and deeply comforting.
clothed in white cotton,
blended with the fragrance
of warm bread.
A profound peace
from a presence
that no longer requires a form.
I smile
where all symbols
converge into a single meaning—
a confirmation of your presence:
warm,
tender,
and deeply comforting.
345 by From Saint Agnes to Egypt July 26, 2026
111
I do not move,
for God dwells between us.
My dearest,
this love is not a painting of our making;
He is the Painter.
Let it rise
by His own hand.
When He moves between us,
our colors blend together
into the beauty
He intended for us.
Let us simply remain longing
for
what He paints
upon our souls.
Even so...
for God dwells between us.
My dearest,
this love is not a painting of our making;
He is the Painter.
Let it rise
by His own hand.
When He moves between us,
our colors blend together
into the beauty
He intended for us.
Let us simply remain longing
for
what He paints
upon our souls.
Even so...
111 by From Saint Agnes to Egypt July 26, 2026
950
These conversations.
These poems.
They're all
just ways to endure.
To help me carry on
when I can't
go on.
May they become
my wings.
Are the numbers...
still
in their places?
Did you ever
look at
those framed poems?
The ones
I left for you
instead
of my
photos.
Did you ever
come looking
for me?
And now...
Is this
my conversation
with you?
Or
my conversation
with myself?
These poems.
They're all
just ways to endure.
To help me carry on
when I can't
go on.
May they become
my wings.
Are the numbers...
still
in their places?
Did you ever
look at
those framed poems?
The ones
I left for you
instead
of my
photos.
Did you ever
come looking
for me?
And now...
Is this
my conversation
with you?
Or
my conversation
with myself?
950— talk to me
950 by From Saint Agnes to Egypt July 26, 2026
325
325 by From Saint Agnes to Egypt July 26, 2026
1107
I get lost
in your beauty.
Every day,
I return to your smile.
Your eyes...
That beautiful curve above your chin.
Time's gentle lines.
I'm dying
to kiss
every line.
In your presence...
your voice, too...
hard to focus.
I repeat your words
so none of them
slip away.
Or I don't look at you,
so I can hear
what you're saying.
Your heart...
Even more.
in your beauty.
Every day,
I return to your smile.
Your eyes...
That beautiful curve above your chin.
Time's gentle lines.
I'm dying
to kiss
every line.
In your presence...
your voice, too...
hard to focus.
I repeat your words
so none of them
slip away.
Or I don't look at you,
so I can hear
what you're saying.
Your heart...
Even more.
1107 by From Saint Agnes to Egypt July 16, 2026
1717
The sea drew me in.
The sky gave me flight.
I was drifting away
from the stony village.
Against my will,
I was drifting away from you,
who stood upon the shore.
A heavy sorrow—
yet a profound acceptance.
A fierce wind blew,
slamming the blue wooden windows.
I closed the window,
my eyes fixed on its blue—
a sign...
I was still dreaming.
Why is there no waking from this dream?
That night,
when I was seventeen,
something happened—
that tore my feet
from the stony ground,
with the firmness of a vow.
Something, perhaps,
in your life...
The quiet pain of those seventeen years—
feeling you,
and not having you...
I can set aside.
But what am I to do
with these eleven years—
having you,
yet not seeing you?
The sky gave me flight.
I was drifting away
from the stony village.
Against my will,
I was drifting away from you,
who stood upon the shore.
A heavy sorrow—
yet a profound acceptance.
A fierce wind blew,
slamming the blue wooden windows.
I closed the window,
my eyes fixed on its blue—
a sign...
I was still dreaming.
Why is there no waking from this dream?
That night,
when I was seventeen,
something happened—
that tore my feet
from the stony ground,
with the firmness of a vow.
Something, perhaps,
in your life...
The quiet pain of those seventeen years—
feeling you,
and not having you...
I can set aside.
But what am I to do
with these eleven years—
having you,
yet not seeing you?
1717 by From Saint Agnes to Egypt July 16, 2026