It seemed easy enough: a soul seeks
what it adores. So fair the fight, so wrong the silence. If changing continents,
she’d give a dream. Taking control, a myth, a damn good one, actually, quite
popular. I was with paint and brush, pencil and pen, silence and voice. I would
enter a dream, so easy to love, dependent on states of art. Needing brushwork. Asking
for essence. To desire so much from a stranger—if but to feel whole again. The
stranded nights, abusing daylight, needing darkness—it sounds so aloof. Thinking
back over my tears, losing too often, it requires a fine balance: a little of
each, daily sullen, daily with a sense of joy. To give, to hope, to envision. Often,
and more, to sacrifice, to surrender, with onlookers falling into its rhythm.
Certain to languish, seated like lemurs, just hanging from the trees of
existence; too refrained to have elation, so desperate to have elation, if Love
warrants the invisible.
