It Is

It wasn't of an age. It was awareness.
That moment when a *something* brings
a strange new point of view to everything
we used to feel. Nor is it just a matter of
illusive images of what they call maturity.
More, it is a matter of experience.

The kind that grips you, heart and mind
and soul, and lets you know that life
itself has something more to offer you.
Tingling, each particle of flesh begins
to do much more than merely open out.

They used to call it chemistry, then leave it
as it was without a doubt. Yet even
biochemistry cannot explain the vital changes
that relationships will bring. Intimate and
universal. Hope of life and its reversal.
Thoughts of birth and death become
a momentary vision of eternity in motion.

Experience - the depth of which has
never been explored in full by any one
alone. For life that's lived without
such love, could never quite atone
for what was lost. Venturing, they try
to figure out specific costs. But
quality was never that specific, and
at some point they seem to suffer loss.

Rather, it must be itself - quixotic.
A soulful health that lives beyond
obsessions and excuses of toxicity.
Rational is more than any logic
could produce. Unrealized, the wisdom
of our lives can't be reduced by anyone
or anything that never found itself
unbound by such great unity.

Proportionate, at times, and then
unbalanced. Chaos come to tame
the staid and stoic miseries; arising
with unending feelings of pure madness
and insanity. And then it lingers on.
Calm within the center of the storms.
As invisible, your soul must enter in.

Enter in abundance of the particles
of flesh you really are - continuum of motion
and exchange. Sensation lying somewhere
in between the one extreme of our hubris
and yet another fierce extreme they call humility.
Integrity was never ready-made. Nor can
the intellect alone ever pervade the scope
and source of life itself.

It isn't of an age. It is awareness.
Each moment when a *something* brings
a strange new point of view to everything
we used to feel. Some simply call it love,
while others argue in ongoing punitive debates.
It is, yet never was contained, within
a word or words or deed. It is indeed
this one and only miracle of love.

Lost and found, and lost again.
In the finding and the losing,
still - it always will remain
the life of motion's great, intense
emotive destiny...

? Michaelette ?

7/6/2002
Copyright© 2002 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
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