...The fool must die, to be reborn
within the arms of love herself...
She loves, he loves, and yet they
cannot seem to find a home
in which to meet and greet each
circumstance that comes upon them;
nor yet to meet and greet the greatest
love that ever lived.
For their stations, born of life without
a choice, decree it must be so. And oh,
the pain endured in love’s survival;
most poignant when a marriage minus love
must be annulled in order for this love
to just live on.
As if true love could ever grow
within a plenitude of earthly goods;
rather than within two hearts
that beat in unison, flying past
all eyes that plead for nothing more
than just a grounded safety
But duty, be it of a son or daughter,
or e’er conceived of any mother
or a father, still leads the way
in will and intellect, that never take
into consideration, this feeling
of the love of heart at all.
Were you weeping when you told
her last of your great love? He dies,
yet still has yet to meet his void; where
violent winds blow deepest seas
into the heart of him, now rising up
yet once again in misery; only to be
reborn again, within the arms
of love so true that all he is
cries out in ecstasy.
She sings a song of all substantiation,
crying out within a wind of pure
imagining. A song that those who think
themselves to be the wise and virtuous,
have never come to sing. She is the muse
of this pure flesh (oh goddess, form of
flesh divine, do not desert me now).
His mind has learned so much
of family and duty and his fate
as seen by those who steal true love
from every endless lover’s heart;
that he reels in the perplexity of what
has come to be the truest venture
that reality has ever brought to be -
just there, within the heart and soul
of he, himself at last alive.
Does the dove coo in expectancy;
or could it be that once conceived,
this love of just one passing eve,
might finally know itself complete,
in the depth and height and width
of her reflection...?
And yet not sun, nor moon, nor stars
could ever feel this great awakening
of love itself. They seek us, endlessly
to thus transition and transpose, every
touch of this divinity that really feels
in every sense of its formation,
the divinity that lives and breathes
only through us. And never could an
other take the place of this true bliss.
Fight, oh fight, for all you love the best,
stands now, just there, seemingly beyond
the common sense of gross reality; reaching,
ever reaching for this commonality of
love itself. And yet these births, this utter
song of love itself – we are taught that it
belongs within some other world,
miraculous and blind,
that reaches for this essence
of an ecstasy divine.
For so long, the queen looked down,
from that, her throne of solitary power.
Yet even she responds to all the rapture
of their ecstasy sublime; reaching,
in the silence of all listening, to touch
and then revolving back into herself,
within these realms invisible; where
indigo begins to speak this touch,
our touch, into an ecstasy that simply
must complete itself again.
Oh, sacrificial lamb and maiden,
lying now upon the altar of this death
of flesh transposed into the end
of all beginnings; if truly you have
ever been enhanced within your will,
and freely given any choice at all, or just
one other now, to see you through – is this,
the end of love and life, what you would
would truly choose right now?
She rarely eats, she does not sleep,
for lack of him, her one true love.
What would he have her do alone,
within the face of that, such overwhelming
wealth and power; or strength of an
authority that reaches so far back
in time and history (the power of
which, still keeps e’en him somehow
Her strength is lessened, day by
endless day, for each night she pines
away for just one kiss of their almighty
bliss; so endless and yet so surreal,
denied by him e’en as she reels for
lack of his essential nurturance.
And so she slowly dies within
the bliss that only he was free
to offer once to her.
Just then, she tried and failed to demand
her own arising within him; for all that
he had offered her became no more
than just a fleeting wind; as the roles
he played became for him no more
than that which, even now, he chooses
to display out there, out in the world
at large, that again begins to win the
endless battle for the essence of
all love, which simply can’t exist
within a world of warring opposites.
And yet, now cast aside, she shrinks
away from world and even as must be,
away from life and this eternal touch
of flesh, that once they’d lived so well.
As there, within her, every goddess weeps,
for all that keeps the world of man
from this, this love divine that shines
within, above, beyond all thought
of every deity; even as this death becomes
reborn eternally within their past
of ecstasy in momentary moments
of a life now thought divine and thus
beyond all mortal mind...
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home...a