So Naïve at Heart

I know little about love, that inner barbwire, sealing morals. I know little about ethics, as we ought to know, those slopes our love-hood. I know little about affections, after so many years—of peeling emotions. I know more about sentiments, this strange weight, this fever of sorrows. I know more about pash, those deep illusions, where reality is favored; as little is known, concerning phantoms, to have chased for so many years; to know more about skiing feelings, as vague as those eyes, to believe in discernment. I know more about dying, this favor of rebirth, as sober as an infant’s smile; to know little about love, this rush of caffeine, tippy toeing in silence. I know more about muddy tears, painful segues, this practice of control; where days are fading, this morbid man, cleaving to something spiritual. I know less about suffocating, by pure intensity, as making love in ecstasies: that pining obsession; that rabid climax; that ultimate vulnerability; to have known so little, to have lived so much, traveling by mind our souls; as knowing more, concerning our brains, to have lost so much in-between. I know little about love, as professing love, to let go with ease; as saving face, where face was slaughtered, as one slain in morals: that segment of miseries; that feeling of possession; that push to chisel prose. I know more about needs, as living ascetically, traipsing this vast valley; where kettles are souls, while caches are passions, to sit giggling at a thought. I know more about love, this inner position, as fumbling through mire: this mixture of elements, as distorted as time, to lust for something forbidden: this morbid theologian; this grand contradiction; this man as hard upon self. I know more about sacrifice, even colloquiums, while chasing a perfect sentence; to know little about sinning, this man his compass, while appearing a buffoon. I know more about follies, or offending perfection, while attesting to un-attainments: this feeling of loss; this intimate excursion; to dirty up those waves; where little is known, concerning sacrificial flames, peering at beauty—that reservoir of chimes, as soft through summer breezes, while mourning misreads. I know more about fancies, those walls of agonies, that complexion sighted through colors; where pictures fade, while minds churn, to have lived this schism.