It’s
so unusual, to miss it in its absence, to wonder of anomalies. It became a
friend, as familiar as spirits, to experience joy as a breach; for joy peters
out, where pain takes a break, but ever present. We know one to meet the other;
where to miss joy is to feel pain, and to know pain, is to yearn for joy. It’s
a mythic cycle, a mystic memoir, a talking credenza; to love one and mourn the
other, or praise one and embrace the other. We come to terms, either in error
or glory—failing our daydreams. We exhaust joy, and measure pain, delving into
creativity, either way.
We
loved her as adolescents. We grieve her as adults. It becomes evident, albeit,
subtle, we mourn joy! She becomes pantomime, posing through traumas, to often
miss the mark. She’s, too, a manikin, a bit overly compulsive, this infection
fleeing through us. We search the compulsion, a feeling of disappointment,
where she rises suddenly; even through pain, where eyes water, these tender
mirrors;—but oh this mystery, as divested of joy, where she peeks and runs—to
augment pain, this awkward relationship.
