Tears seldom fall.
When they do, a tsunami flushes. And father was reborn, Catholic eyes, bishop
status. And Art was in her belly, bombastic fireballs, a man would see
complications. At Love with feelings, or chills, anything stated becomes
adversarial; wondering about belief, chief of a dungeon, doing differently in
life. I would sip cognac, debate her intentions, to understand if they might
shift … mother would clear the slate, get close, and cherish a new friend … I envied
her, the pain she shared, the glory it extracted. I felt astute, intellectual
sorrow, to keep it silent—I may chase a dream! I prick ego, remembering her
charms, separating myself, from cadence and pride, fretting the Great Deceit.
By a ghost song, summonsing spirits, like crazy in a basement; fully dead,
fully alive, gothic elements—and Love with components, thrust into sin,
offended and hating his sin; it came with a price, too much invested, to
understand the poet is complicated.
