I image a thought, to imagine Kierkegaard’s obsession, or Don Quixote’s delusion. To love beyond reflection; to adore like it was ordained; to feel clean, albeit filthy, to chance life, to pursue inner music. I perceive a miracle, to feel that deeply, as for another soul; to love and win, to win and lose, to be filled with illusion. By Love received, as was it given, or never to touch a palm so enthralled. I wonder about Wolfe, to have adored in essence, broken by beauty, a slave of composition. To find a Love in prose, or sestina, most charmed to have died, to have lived, never a touch, ever one grin. What was life in love for such souls? Or to live by Anabel, seeming a curse, and to have life as it withers. I can’t fathom a name, or liken a curse, to be found negating self, in honor of myth. I know why the caged bird sings. It’s dying for expression. It’s been silent too long. It must sing, else it will surely perish. I still am with need—to fathom love, to know with suspicion the fire sustaining the life. A lady to a man. A man to a lady. To have croaked without her; to have drowned without him; such flame in its casket, sudden resurrection, to love with dangers around, to beg like dying is easy without Love.
