I embark upon love, as a portal to existence: the sun glistening upon life, the tales told in classes, the rivalry for fair resistance, to court and court and lose. Such tragic pain, life as gods, souls as goddesses: flame of
coldness, fire of ice, rolling by heart, stern by wrath, affected by fair beauty. A soul living his deaths, chasing partial winds, banshees & wraiths, gusts & spiders, to speak about love—is to perish to love. It
was never intention, it was ever compulsion, measured against unreality, a soul of the Spirit. Like a stroke of good fortune, Love would pluck a flower, gaze on high, and annunciate the poet’s name. Such grayness.
The poet would pursue. The two might wrestle, act flirtatious, or plain show disrepute. Such fluffy doves, beads of sweat, excellence & shadow seduction. The tender greetings, a nimble caress, to have lived
whilst we died. Kingdoms at war. Making lament upon a lute. Staring into something futuristic. Needing to love, if but to remember. So swift, the loss; so unreal the encounter. So fragile the humanity.
