Before it dies it suffers. Before it loves it courts. On rare occasions, one is devastated by beauty. And Love is subtle. I see it. I sense myself. Makes life seductive, an art in color, an opalescent machinery. Curtains before a cross. Baptism on the 8th day. Better circumcision. But Love is angst and honor; so many years at perfecting yoga, such blight at times. I would need her early on. She would need life. It amazes when dealing with power, they have an appetite, something affective must be part wild like. (I looked at her and adored what I saw. I noticed a sardonic wit, an insecure armor, most provocative, most human.) I retrospect on Love, eagle eyed, filled with determination, desperate for her well-beloved. Citrus and wines. Linchpins and figs. Deep scars and mobile wounds. In adoring Love, sight seen, a man is accustomed to loathing himself, one knee, one pledge. If we knew in totality, we’d sense why melancholy is addictive. Passion of arts. Skyward penmanship. To know her is to feel imbalanced by her. Before a final fire, aloof in pain, aching on page three, soul of my light. A better person those waves as concerned about existence. Secerning through turmoil. A fierce lover. Made to flourish, a product of enduring, beyond escaping. Interior anxieties. An influencer. Plums with grapes. Days growing intensely.
