You are the love of my life, filled with upheaval and strife. You are the life of my love, war's first bullet on the trail of the dove.
Cast a stone into waters unknown and send a ripple to this awash cripple, so that we will have loved and lived, been of things unseen, shaken and awake; taken down the beast and partaken in the feast. So that the skin I
live in and the fangs I hide within are draped upon the trapper's wall
before my rage devours all. A token for the broken and a burn to soothe
the yearn, a key to make you free to make you see to make you bleed to
make you breed to make you fly so high you'll never have to ask the sky
for a reason why. To relinquish every lie and make you born again only
to forever die.
You neglect the wonders of your mind and question why I disavow your kind?
The fluttering heartbeat flickers like neon upon a soaked street, rough to the touch and never enough and always too much, where up is down and the world is in freefall. In the rain I call: believe and
receive and revere upon the absolute of here! Matched will be the stature of mine,
for I am absolutely thine. A legion of one for you, a heart pure and true. You are love's worthy companion and I am the
companion worthy of your love. Never deserving, yet never without
worth. And what is worth if not the heart's girth.
You are that which you say you are not. You are not. Not
is what you are tied to, a knot. The knot is what ties you down to the
not, y'see. To tie the knot is to say you are not.
Tied down, sporting a frown, dressed in a heavy gown, hung and strung
upside down. Go around and never make a sound - your loss is our shared
cross. Do not say you are not. Never dare say you are not. For then the
knot you will be. See. The knot you say you are not is the knot of your
not. See?
It strains and burns as the timepiece turns, tied and bound, evermore lost in mind and sound, and we are
quaint with screams abound as we dance around and around and so on and so on... We sacrilege and retort to no
end, leaving three words without counter or friend, yet luminous beings we remain and easily we would extend. What a waste. What beauty lies in
you, in us, in the fire that makes us glow, we waste it so. The knot of the not.
Of
fulfilling things we know yet unfulfilled we go; we could growl yet we
scowl. We could command, we could be grand and in demand, yet we dare
not even make a stand. Cowards in the waking sun, substituting blandness
for fun. Bah.
We are all maggots to one and faggots to the other. Heretics to
the third and ticks to the rest. No thought for the consequential best,
for all that truly shines resides in the chest. That's where I waste away to
find a safe haven for these thoughts to stay, play, sway, lead astray... Frail as falling autumn leaves yet sturdy as the gladiator's greaves. Gray mass encased in glass, these sullen eyes and my grand goodbyes. Time to laugh. Now the heavens are weeping and I won't be sleeping tonight, retorts mister Jones - evermore burning in my chest as his guitar illuminates my unquiet rest - even as a coffin full of bones.
Let's take you and I, for argument's sake, winking as
we agree this exchange is far from fake. We are estranged strangers light on our feet, no less than
wildebeests in heat; soft tissue protecting softer bones, flesh in
rapture while our souls bleed out against rough stones, scavenging the
world before our punctured eyes upon the broken altar of Athena as we
parade like hungry lions before the arena. You, a shell of naught
against your own draught. I, a scribe of my own demise. Time to laugh.
In the face of lions - yet lions we are, from up close and from afar. The cold offers us release, which we accept as the olive branch to appease; our pound of flesh and skin a penance for inconsideration and reckless sin.
The rhyme ends. Forgetfulness overtakes us as we disregard the desire for equal payment. We
cultivate and copulate, seeking forgiveness for our shared sacred calf
of gold. Where indeed did our allegiances lie? I forget.
Even in victory we fail to claim the prize.
But we are not without sustenance; never without strength of spirit;
strength of will. You are stronger than my dreams and I stronger than
yours, yet we dare not draw the hand further, afar, beyond. But we probe and procure.
Blind children enveloped by fog, starved by stagnation. That is what we succumb to; that is
what we adhere to. One last valiant surrender. That is what we strive for and ultimately starve for.
We stagnate while painting those views we behold; further, afar, beyond.
We are worse than our worse angels. Better than all, crafty scoundrels a step ahead of the jaws below.
We are the love of our lives.
