when a feeling is exhausted, it becomes
dull, intolerant of same provocation.
not a shred of indifference, until
indifference, until gears become blinkered.
not a sparkle shall ensue, or polish, a
hebetated emotion, just irritability.
a wayward child is first coddled. havoc
continues for a time. parents become familiar, frustrated, then indifferent.
but I speak of passion, in arts, in
humans, in something called love.
it shears indifference. it adores its
beloved. it operates contrary to advice.
to cherish pain, to prance in miseries, to
feel a sexual tug. not a twig of evidence, to show goodness, health, wealth
of possession.
into a photo, to harness originality, to
gather figs, fruits, humility, harshness;
such casual anxiety, filtered by
satiation, to have become what churns in stomachs.
but I speak of passion, compromise, ideals
shot at, destroyed, suffering at reality’s hands:
threshed to nothingness, accursed as
irritants, searching, longing, screaming!
some existential casket, some metaphysical
coffin, torn to love, with reason to die, such beaty is rejection.
