We’re
ever deceased, to finally live, if but a moment. Just
look
backwards: a new love, a brimming life, a present
need
to rejuvenate. The deeper the heart, the deeper the
need.
I float to return, knee high in philosophies, probing
meaning;
but meaning’s aloof, and highly subjective, in a
world
of objectivity. Love, too, is perception, a fight for
meaning,
crawling through crevices. I’m deeply
concerned,
to witness a free-for-all, where nothing has
meaning.
Is it merely a flower? Is she merely a woman?
Am
I but a man? I lose myself, to witness a downfall,
often
perceived as gumption. I struggle, to speak of love,
in
a nihilistic world. I want for
science, ‘ologies, and love;
never
to mention, prose and poetry. Is it but romance, to
enchant
wings, ever to kiss upon clouds. I’m cynic,
speaking
of love. I’m skeptic, praising knowledge. I’m
epistemic,
but a diehard mystic, creating proofs. More for
theology,
a bucket of beads, incense and candles. I live a
contrast,
an inner dialogue, to challenge a world of
concretes,
ever to yearn for such concretes. I never knew,
for
more is partly cursed, and so is less; wherefore, an in
between,
as filling as rice cakes.
