I never quite capture it. I remain distracted. Years to silence. It would be psychological, to war a man’s brains. To talk badly to non-contentment. I suppose all tragedies—made classic, we just ignore those. In exchange for some illusion. Just to pretend in some capacity. I can’t do it. I’m surprised to see fifty years of working it out. I admire all in one, one in all. Notwithstanding,
something of importance dances solitary, performing before reality, casual consistencies. It’s quite a mind. It knew. It still went forward. I ask if it’s better to remain naïve, if so, how is it possible? Such humidity, such heat, such helium vices. I was seeing some image; it was a lady. I wonder if she too was affected by the hypocrisy. I couldn’t listen to truth and play pretend:
maybe so. I feel like sin. It was engrained. I was wayward. I, thus, take assertions easy. In it all, it truly matters—it truly does. Over champaign, asking and insinuating, having some unlocked experience—those tiptoeing dreams; (to discover a sentiment in practice, two must admire each other, love is beautiful, lust is universal, admiration must be and it mustn’t die). There’s
admiration without amore; there’s lust without admiration; there’s love without true amore. There’s passion where it wishes to defile; there’s want of such sentiments. (Are humans too complicated?) I turned a corner. I walked by a building. I remember follies, errors of behavior. Souls trying to cleanse is incredible. No one lets it die out. Most forgive self, easily enough …
indeed, I lean into preaching. I set out trying to capture a sentiment, a petal at times, a crane in winds; speaking to one is unusual. And everyone is caring, struggling, needing peace, such an aloof creature. To look at the poet, to chastise the poet, to tell the poet—the tragedies were false. To tell the poet to hold his tongue, indeed, in respects, I shall hold my peace. Such a menacing
reality, a soul took for courage, boldly falling apart; such laughter in waves, to have a home, to know for impermanence. Such a lonely, crowded, intimate life. A need to be closer. A desire to adore. A wall screaming out frailties. To realize: a soul accepts the best one is able to give, and never imposes more upon the beauty. Thoughts sound normalized. In it all, to have worshipped,
to share intimacies, to see something absolute, to cherish for three decades, not easily unlocked. (To cherish a feeling, to know a person has it in them, if one would try; the poet is trespassing.) I was at a pond, right there, feeding birds, close enough to pet one. Someone was right, it feels like a dream. Like an artificer is confusing humanity. Some elements seem blatant, obvious, and
the poet is forced to talk it down. And Love wasn’t what was worshipped, ever adored, challenged to break sociality, made a feud inside. I was younger, upon a vision, entangled in perfections. I believed Love mastered excellence. I walked away in a wheezing frenzy. Over across from the pond, upon a bench, sat an eighty-year-old couple. I should have been bold,
audacious, as to ask for the magic in its key. They, we, are angered at all the pillars of Existentialism; some crime to expound upon behavior; in giving life to correlations. I lost respect for it. It held a standard. It proved to exist in title. I fail to capture it. Something inside is blockage. In saying it plainly, it loses luster; in skipping around it, it loses directness. Making a
riddle, it’s missed. At some point, this isn’t another opportunity. The poet went too far. We preach hope. A fundamental gift. We say essence in Love, a great boon. We ache it out, accept it nearer, plague our souls. In keeping silence, we stand still, we care to adore, we miss the angels.
