You once looked at me
with so much love ablaze
within your eyes,
as if to memorize the very
particles of which this flesh
is made. I knew not
then, but you had chosen
to take leave, and never
to return again.
Not because of force or happenstance
oh no - rather because you chose
to live those inbred lies yet
once again. It took me long and then
yet longer still, to just believe
that you had left; and longer yet
to come to see the fear
that lay there at the depth of
heartfelt love's deceit.
Beyond my will, I was compelled
to seek the truth behind the words
of rage and anger that you left
for me to bear alone - not for
another love, nor e'en because
our love had strayed; but instead
I see you chose those old and dying
myths of wealth and stance as
power in a sick society. And
thus we parted, torn apart, by blind
beliefs that never touch the heart
of all that matters.
I must admit, you played me
for months as heartbreak took its toll;
as if I were a string upon a harp,
that could ring in sweetest
song for only thee. But now I see you
are no more than just a fading memory
of all the love that could have been
enshrined within reality forever,
if only you had chosen to be true.
(Now his heart is lying
in a pit of deep
and dark despair; for she, his maiden
fair, is lost to him. Will he ever find
the courage to awake and take
a stance in her defense?)
Does this age of electronic
preclude as much as all those
old Victorian stories told - where
true lovers were forced to choose
their death, because of this one touch
of endless bliss and loving ecstasy...?
The lonely have abided now,
for far too long in spans of mortal
time; taught to fear this utter kiss
of immortality and the truth
of this divinity of flesh.
They speak, they rail - they tell
their tales, yet have they yet
confessed the many moments
when they too, denied this love?
And more than this, I cannot
but wonder why this love should
e'er be thought as a confession -
when every beat of living hearts
decrees its worth in immortality.
I speak here not of lust, and yet
I must include each gentle touch
of this love of flesh and form; for this
earth has always been much more
than any pre-formed mother image
could ever come to be within
an age of nothing more than history.
I hear the generations calling
unto the next; pleading, speeding,
endlessly receding in the modern
forms of preset debt and death. And
yet all answers must be born
of this and only this - this endless
love of life that we must live...
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home...