When once I approach a bridge I mount my fear by extending my hand, as I did with my father years ago. We approached a grated expanse and I implored he catch me should I fall. Safely then on the other side, he having held me the entire way, I knew I was forever indebted. I still don't like bridges and I don't like admitting that something scares me, but I hate that debt most of all.
It's intrepidity, is resignation to a certain fact. But it's haunting, too. A countenance negated, when for once a blank stare lives as the mind in that moment, with all blood let and costly service rendered. There is no roadmap for spells concluding enduring sagas, and the intrepid know that. I'll admire from afar and wonder on the strength of those survivors as they quarter amid the spent minefield. They might say there is no strength in tattered ends, all life is a process of will and action. They might say that standing still in the face of the unmitigated is an admission of human frailty. Respectively, I say: Let me admire. Let me reflect. Stillness is strength especially in the hour of the unmitigated.
Please enjoy my humble attempt at verse:
When wilted, wills collide and flesh tones sound unceasingly in love's great unknown. Sinful suplex, where harm's slayed, caught enraptured with limp limbs splayed. Post riders and chariots of desire bed down. Ceasing shame prior to well-earned rest, wilted now only in name.
Yes he saw him and knew his intentions. Yes, Yes, of course there is an anxious flush. Handsome faces force their way into memories with a blinding speed. Sweats breed themselves like fruit flies across the faint worry lines of his face. He steps on high achievement like a laden stone, pronouncing something unintelligible, like it's history's forgotten place mat. All these indiscretions and distractions that agitate him to no end. To no end. That's the puzzling part of it all. Sitting and hoping on some, while others he bare wrestles and bleeds dry. Is this a coherent picture of a man? Is this a man who prizes a coherent picture of himself? This man is my friend and these words are all the best I can do.
We'd get so high, project the foolish and let the vapors run us ragged. Our incantatory howling an extension of iridescent smoke plumes. Parched and pining, we'd sip sublimonade from circus spouts and own up to the awful, as our tempers would allow. The act of incinerating barriers lovers never broach is wild work. Those days are of a kind safer minds may never know.
I spent my life wishing when, that spell whistling at my heart. A tug, a tear, and all the frosty drag it holds. That bitter cold a balm that numbs, and reflecting that a feeling is more than some quiet alone. I accept that ever after is nevermore; these things ourselves tell us that then shed rhythmically asunder. Each beat is a probe. Our heart, it's faithful prole. And tomorrow, as well as all to follow, will the frigid beg for friction and I beg alike?
That curious she, lithe and in peace. Wielder of favor -- her influence one with the power of fitful beauty. She's afore me now. And through her will bound in supposition, enchanting on wings of fortnight fancy. While intensely convulsive during her paternal rituals; I, the target of her amorous charge, am infected. With her shadowy gaze she states: Dispense with your grace dear, for sweet speed owns this union. Tomorrow, as yesterday, brings new light and love. Stay regret, however, and stay passion. Brevity and honesty will the heart to a calm repose.
We would cuddle often together in mutual admiration, each inspired by the other. Plastered off our desire and nuzzling comfort to avoid the day. Well, what of places to go and things to see? We break once or twice but a cold vacuum stills the air and harms the void. No, no, no..we won't leave this; there's none other. What a picture of the future, this present, an idea I'd put into song. I hope that we might sing this song together, and let it echo through the chambers of our hearts.
Heartbeats and shadows patter, beating out the cadence of the ancient lover's cry. Tense is the refrain secret endearments claim, a melting of resolve does not such deceit absolve. Were all our failings so, better that we might perceive enchantments and phantoms. Oh! The tacit consent of sweet and innocent, erectors of sturdy lore set to avert the bore. And then when uncovered, pitiful in undulations, left to strip a quiet thrill. The last of those to feel may know of shadows real, such as is plain for lovers without name.
There is a moment after the moment when all reside with self. The excuse that enervates wanes under its own gravity. And all the compulsion that sells evaporates like the joy of so many fleeting beats. But this life, judged always and everywhere as if chosen, is not joy in form. It is the catharsis -- the release of the unwished for and eternally unbecoming. Watch even as they wield the grand attempt, so unobservant where the passion spreads thickly. Curses! For the moment after the moment when the energy that enervates dies its trivial death.
The quick twitch of the double take imbeds a moment and the solidity of stunning attachment causes eyes to place themselves at the world's disposal, happy to dispense with responsibility. Take 'em wherever to places grand and small. To faces, legs, hips and frames short and tall. Let loud voices find their homes (but far from me though). And let the cities and towns rebound from so much emotion, concussed from so much commotion, that they reset the great play. Starting again in the hopes of a vibrant, stunning attachment.
I do not believe in the cheap trick and I would not say but that it needs to be said: far more unsettling than the predictable end is the reflection of us as we live.
The mirror woes and the mirror waves, present unsettled constitution in sedentary haze. Poor boy! Poor us for living. That he might know pain and pain alike, and that hate is forgiven. In every moment a reflection. In each a rattled nerve less sense, scant affection. Poor life! Without meaning nor worthy lament. Grant that we might blanche, not persist and persist; yet from birth defiling only innocence.
I stood nearer that star than my frailty might allow. To breath in its quintessence; to know that which constitutes its whole. The dark star of shimmering beauty fixed fast my motor, and the flighty is subdued along the elliptic of such a joyful pull.
A reflection of the many relationships I see around me and a constant reminder of what to avoid.
Happiness is the distance that forms between partners who are parents who were lovers once before. Peace is the division of lives once bound by oath and a promise of the will to thrive. Faces of friends who had love and loss and lose now only that love. The sadness of acceptance and the fate of a bond broken forevermore.
Count me among your many, but count me not at all. By skin, or taste, or refrain I am but my own. But by breath, and life and wonder? Consider me your brother. I hope to share the space of ours in peace. Though I may be quiet and oft reserved, I am peace. Never will you watch my movements, for they shall not hurt you.
He liked to flatter himself in the light, bathing it in like the redeemer, unaware of how ridiculous he was 'cause all redemption is muddled in a fuzzy glow. He beat proud there when she rolled through, parasol in hand. She, hidden from him no matter how he might think to call the moment. And they, all of them, want some too. Each to their own, but in the mix with whosoever is percolating.