Elizabethan blood is boiling again. Rising hot to my ears and if I am not careful from my soul and out of my ill guarded mouth.
My heart is setting, the cement has been loose and wet and movable for too long.
Courage is hardening up. I will be unmovable.
You, who loves what I have to give and yet does not love the heart that gives it, you will make no more imprint. And your impression will not set.

Father lay hands on me, and press your heart into mine. Let that set, let that be immovable and solid, and let it show deep. Faithless friendships and lovers who seek no end, please pull their greedy hands from my heart before they're permanent. YHWH, I'll write your name in a thousand languages, over my skin and into my deepest parts. I want you written all over, your face your heart and your hands imprinted into this spirit of mine, reflected by this body of mine.

That's what I want, YHWH. I'll weave fabric from your words and comfort from covenants, and I'll wrap myself in them. They are royal robes, deep and wide and purple, and they fit so well.
I want Elizabethan blood tamed by your breath.
Lover of my Soul, this is what I want.