Inner Webs

What is this glory, this glory that dwells in humans; and we

devastate our nearest love. What is this travesty? it was

never meant. It flew in upon whims, and thus, the tears,

and thus, the fears. “We rage forever, my love”; and thus

the trepidation. “Your voice is frustrated: you censure

lies, but truth is here, my love, and hurt is misguided.” I

ponder such waves, and side with love, but what if: what if

love is plural? We then suffer—an absent manifest, and all

the while, there’s nothing to confess. I love you as mystic,

and praise the statuesque, and thus, the moral. Love is a

butterfly, free to soar, but often love soars a soul, and

frantic woes—a touch of guile, for deep the sin—a selfish

pain, and mirror hate—a must refrain. It’s not merely oath—

to soothe a soul, and guilty cries—a grieving soul.