I loved the idiocy—this vacant charm, absent of deep
character; this fly by night, this feral swing, as moving without recognition;
but more to yearn, that cultured person, as honest while furious; for life
grieves, where time scorns, this vehicle for heartache; to pump his heart, or
to clutch her soul, this nature of koans. I died to love us, this impression of
love, while distorted this agony; to face music, as pure symbols, dancing upon
a blackboard. I knew to leave us—where hell was home, this haven for fools; so
young the heart, addicted to chaos, to live it as life; but I met a soul, this
paragon of warmth, as to advise one of mischief; this inner star, glowing as to
put to shame—those persons disgracing humanity. So let it be love, that hinders
love, aside for malice; this cerebral cake, mistaken as life, to wrestle over
mishaps; for we love a star, that far from perfect, but candid to inform us: of
woes and grays; of tears and love; of this soft patience; to scream his mind,
or wail her soul, that closer to forbidding kisses. I watched in anguish, this
beautiful dove, for ours is myth and fancy; this inner banquette, stressing
through kryptonite, this weakness for living winds. So gently we move, in deep
admiration, that further from dynasties; this wealth of pressures, guided by
favor, to see her and nod softly; as a misborn union, while we wonder of life,
that fantasy crying. I saw her, this cultured creator, reminding me of my
grief. I heard her, fighting for love, to find it this paradise. Our arts are
furies; our pains are nuances; our love is masterful; as waning in glories, as
waxing in treasures, as writhing through tensions.
