I find speculation is necessary.
To claim it, isn’t as being it.
I ponder you, as if you knew.
I say it like it means a person.
It’s vague, harmful, misleading.
Writing is first free, becoming
restricted, fraught inhibition.
To say about love—doesn’t carry the weight it once did.
Writing becomes complex—
a few crisp sentences. A self-conscious enterprise,
compounded by factors.
I search for ironclad reason to surrender to a paragraph
—as being totality—of light, of expression.
It demands patience, innovation,
spontaneity.
By necessity to discover the unspoken; by inner reality
—if to align it with truths.
Life demands two things: procreation and death.
It was once simplistic. Souls began to inveigle
—to secern, to distinguish between the love of
now, and the disappointment of future.
In needing perfection, I ruin myself;
in surrendering, I destroy ambition.
To do anything to keep you; to wonder how love lives;
surefire discussions, acceptance of infinity,
dragons and tigers.
