We
appeal to love, this flagrant ideal, as motivated purely—by spirit-instincts,
flowered as awnings—the days of Jonah. We rise through chaos, ever complaisant
through joys—bold in our endeavors. We suffer and spiral and spin and soar, as
sullen as spirits; to arrive at moments, where humans are touched, fighting to
recapture motion. It’s terse and kinetic—the tectonics of love—and ever for
rejuvenation; to feel such kindness, as to expose vulnerability, where such
exceeds ploys; as born to live, stressing a career—the three as a blended net;
or better a cord, sifting a cistern, ever that search for diamonds, as afield
in the inner city; and what was love, as more than champagne, and more than
roses, even more than gestures; but rather, this steep emotion, caved within
minds, a feeling close to trauma; as to gain that moment, or attain to clouds,
but grounded in epistemologies. It mustn’t be real, this pragmatist’s love,
upon a metaphysical plain; and it mustn’t be real, the sharing of vows, where
love is exclusive, anxiously. We fight and fumble and filter and fly that
closer to soul threshing; and we cleave and claw and court and care that
further from accepting fate. It mustn’t be real—as ever this close, where
thoughts become haywire; for gestures are real, as dear as insecurities—a
feature through parental longitude; where father is nuance, and mother is
feelings, and grandparents appear as perfect; to affect a soul, so early in
life, where a forty year old man sits in therapy; as, too, a woman, sorting after
closure, afflicted by omission. We see it in cultures—this need to divide,
where men and women are steeped in schisms; so where is love—as sitting at
tables, a palm within a palm; to know this breath, as an inner high, this soil
atop survival; to outlive fear, while seeping in passion, an outreach focused
on love.
