We
must adventure—into this sphere of mystery, as the love of a woman; to die her
clench, or rise through sorrow, this breakthrough of affairs; to scold the
coldness, as to pressure for warmness, as to realize brain control. I knew not
love, this shadowy soul, as tattered as perceptions. I knew not love, steeped
in gyration, as proclaiming love. I suppose it lives—this heated fever, as
decorated in sentiments: to barely know a name, screaming this mortal scar,
afraid to part for failure; as to love her more, the ways of psychiatrists, as
given this chance to respond correctly; or better to submit, for power rules
intentions, unless trained from within; to vie for freedom, this abstract
concrete, as to know for differences: that I may exclaim contempt, or rather in
favor, of something so jaded; as born a villain, to rob us of choice, that post
five miles near a scar. I drift…, for
I want her more, as vacuumed in a haze; and I drift…, for I loathe her more, as
confused by paradox. I remember love, as this radiant love, when kids kissed
and giggled; and I remember love, this teenage angst, fighting to complete a
session; and fighting not, as to know not, for all felt foreign and new. I
remember attraction, the width of studies, to yearn for a poetess. I loved her
more, as flowing so freely, and freely to flow. We spoke on cue, this
impromptu, to wax and die as spoken through love. It felt for purpose, aside
for conscious, to rattle a mind of cages; and then we died, as birds plucked
from heaven, to escape into dungeons. I loved her more, as such a bruise on
life, to meet her years later as literature. We felt aloof, as told to write,
as flirting with images; to dine alone, as nothing but a book, to love this
treasured soul. We fell for love, as ashamed dearly, the inanimate becoming a
life-form. I watched her is silence, as to panic a feeling, as challenged to
defend such admiration; to have that moment, spinning in diamonds, to walk away
disenchanted.
