Novice Hearts

We knew little about love—this radical flavor, as more the minutes of time; this enchanting wave, this academician—so grounded in prose; to bend each cuff, floating through space, as trained as lawyers.  Its hell to lose her—the gavel of graves, feigning this business-like nature; as afraid to feel, a depressive sight, at years with repressed memories: they haunt and sting, trickling into futures, whereof, it becomes difficult to love. Trauma is relived, where love is uttered, as radiant as a northern star; but more to romance, that second of closure, where tears pour forth.  It’s a medical love, this thing of therapy, where two exchange hats; that inner glint, soaring at segments, at war to retreat; as born to love, this fragile feeling, where love is most earnest: those facial imprints; that city of souls; those embroidered messages; to scream with passion, this lot of fools—as digging deeper into dungeon cries.  We live as miracles, that feeling of worth, peering into our vulnerability; that wrenching ache, etched into beauty, seated at a table of insecurities; to needle this comfort, while becoming familiar, as to utter, “I know us.”  There’s homes and cars, and jewels and scars, this world pleading for order; as scraped with love, that singing art—embedded in the roots of screaming oaths: that thing of measures; those citadel eyes; that crooked way about vengeance; as something light, engrained in a misprint, to have awakened the children; where it mustn’t be pain—those mischief eyes—the words of a probing son.  We picture our contours, to imagine a private love, where hell shall never unravel; for ours is grizzle, as dense as bone, causing our characters to soar.  Where was love—while suppression ruled the arts; for life was mere breath, this robotic motion, shredding a tented mind?