A Hundred Tears

I never ignore it, this probing ache, to station lives; and never to feel it, its full extent, to crumble in tears; but oh the rain, even the storm, to ask the Lord, Why?     The reply is seldom, the stardom of pain, this tragic life; where love is queen, the nature of prose, to pour into a comma. I see you, Love—that closer the rage, to wonder of the mixtures; where words seem askew, to favor a motive, that further the truth; but given life, the heart of love, to celebrate this darkened day; but not for Job, to curse its breadth, speeding towards a convergence.     I drop a tear, even a plethora, to fathom this castle. It’s deep within, the glens of chaos, to court a solution; where hurt is life, the measure of pearls, to know the contradiction. It was ever us—the range of the lands, pierced by infinity; and gods heard—to plea our parts, to find for anger; so what for hearts, that jagged course, even an obscure planet?    

I feel it boldly, this inner wave, that closer to breath; and oh the deaths, to repeat life, as torn as St. Paul; where love is grit, the courage of swans, to mimic the greatest fevers.     I reappear—that deeper the self, to watch every word; but oh the trauma, to know it’s wrong, and staggering songs.     We love with fervor, to die with hate, that closer to annihilation.     It’s a must to wonder, of something so vile, to claim such allegiance; but this is life—ever to hate, while dying in fragments; but more to life, to feel and be felt, where reason takes precedence; for pain is lethal, the guide of souls, to register an apocalypse; unless for love, to take the hem, as honorable as honor; but this is vague, to see a loop, where we give for what is given.