To live for ideals the fever of breathing, baffled by
you. It was myth, it was exciting—a woman, her dreams, a sin, its whisper. Every
mystery recorded, every miracle made scientific, privacy made a vision, for a
time being; so close it hurts, a rose for the funeral, to ache over truths—so furious
over beauty, to become aloof, to live a private life. I was walking, it dawned
on me, you will remain a dove, a man’s earnest, if to possess something holy—as
near as it comes, too far to reach, putting effort into invisibility. The lines
are weary, imagination becomes a rival, must learn not to think. Yes, a
mystery, as tyranny rages forth, the curse of adoring you. Keeping silent on
this vein, watching sheer disappointment; to have favor in it disappears,
framed in essence, so distinct & clear. It will never be you, so settled
into life, with a muse or two to keep balance.
