I remeasure a fact, love must always be rekindled. Such a simple assertion, enwoven with time. Most prominent brow. Neither sad nor happy. Everything just is. Not too excited about man’s rules, nor overly emotional. I speak of a breeze—a phantom. Or, and this is paradox, Love is concerned about maxims, sort of deep in feelings, a tad bit somber. We say—it doesn’t matter, rejuvenate love. With life tugging, motion abusive, pause for us. A legitimate demand. Both are dispassionate souls, animals in part (what separates us?), what makes our sanctum? Love could be well-read, a thoroughbred, in getting to a point where uncertainty doesn’t register. I might impassion us, with Love reciprocating, what is it, where it desires more of the beloved? I would sense a tale of two islands. “It’s just what you wanted,” the one said. “And it’s just what you crafted,” the other barked back. I see poetry as both emotional and unromantic. Poetry is rigorous when aroused, a needle with thread when in love, a powerful sadness when depressed. How do we feel it to keep it alive? Souls get to a perspective—simplicity is accepted, complex ideas run within us. Love is reading like crazy. Love is in converse with friends. Love is prominent in her field. The poet absorbs her. Opens up at turns. Probes all those apostolic remnants. In adoring one takes life for granted. In discarding feelings, silence slips in, one has to start over. Love must always be rekindled—over arts, aside literature, probing psychology.
