Against shame & unfair odds, I fought you
while the same time you despised me, smirking.
I shuddered, shivering, would or did you care for us ?
yet I knew you hated outright, with all your calculated attention,
the clean quite tidy corners
Of a sacred space. With incense and lit wicks, trembling.
And I fell, like a star crashing on the pavement !
…wishing Eternity to be placed, inside an impossible vessel !
« My dear darling, up and dancing awkwardly in a vain man’s story, where all is fake & fakery from one level to the next spiraling endlessly just underneath the scrutiny of God.
It has no mystic use for you, nor does it ever consult me
it vibrates longitudinally in complete and resonant discompassion
across the temporal fibres, Death does thrive on.
There is nothing bold & wonderful about it. Nothing worth taking to the grave.»
Pleading with all this in unkempt mind, we fight unjust battles for romantic reasons, without any favor from any gods or demons or men or ghosts or awful giants hiding in the air, covered in fur. We combat rebellious bodies, the souls twitching the wide & fickle range of sickly horreurs , which embedded in vernacular from the start of younger years deface in time, the pure natural innocence we saw immediately at once thru our eyes.
But now I know how forlorn it was desiring to reduce you and your intangible beauty into a soothing stale phrase. To want to place you into a frame. To make a gruesome image of you in accordance with the disfigured light of my own trusting ignorance. To make of you, a static sterile thing ! An Idol revery. Into a barren idea where the internal soil of our mutual inaccessibility just wont bother.
« Love is an ungrateful & abominous joy which can be unearthed from beyond the Aether. An inspired lovely brave and sometime solemn substance, wakeful in the heart, longing to quit the idle sound of murderous spleen. »
It’s certainly not some barren idea of you which you despise ! Nor is it some refrain randomly plucked on the cat gut, elaborated from 3 to 4 to 5. On a tortoise shell under your pillow. The wind in the room lost in the darkness. Not dead.