Mirrors II

Its a long trail, derailed from love, while feigning perfection. The conscience wanes, made dull by infractions, where righteousness becomes a thing for fools; for life is hard, this need to outwit, even to fight disease. It becomes normal, while a fool harps about sin--that illogical station; as wonder comes, and shoulders fall, and hell has befriended our nature. But love is rich, even omniscient, this thing we consider friendship: that faraway grin, that elusive gaze, those contagious moments; staring as we do, in love with bundles of joy, as she rides her first bike. I know not the waves, as defrauded of jewels, while a family rages over righteousness. I stand accused, praying she walks on by, a mere man wrestling with sin; nay, more than a man, this thing of Spirit, this passion of Love; to find for errors, while edifying prose, to have told her the truth: this sight of fools, harping over correct conduct, a bit spacey over ethics. It's the more we live, the more we die, until perfection begins to soar; that elusive dream, glaring at eyes, afraid to trek the campus. It's so esoteric, this thing of minds, this secret we live; as built upon hardships, as graced with mercy, while a niece grips a cross--so golden this night, fretting over futures, while something trite takes center stage. But I must confess--that serious banter, as oh so electrifying; to make peace with war, to see for change, that person redeeming lights; while threaded in madness, this mother about sadness, forming her castles. It mustn't be real, this infectious laughter, as permeating our lungs; where such is mercy, semi-condemned, warring against mediocrity: those shaven souls, at tears with therapy, at odds with psychiatry: that false impression, as becoming normal, as if they never met. Live long this life--as circled in sands--our picture a modern proverb; as if to perish, this vain lot, at tears with arrogance.