Monday, October 27
True, Trickery
His name finds me, reoccurring on the pages,
Though he stays far away, I keep coming undone.
The chapters progressing, we go through stages,
Somehow growing in contrast, flipping one by one.
It wills itself to sit quietly, the love, then darts, steadfast,
Into and out of existence, always hidden and clear of the sun.
It proves to be, of sorts, the kind that lasts,
Alive in memories, imprinted in pasts, if not in reason.
If not in seasons, love reproduces, emanating in energies,
They were here, ready, before the matter had begun.
Time, unlike me, waiting patiently for the queries,
Heart drops, I am left to wade through sea-lengths of stun.
Waiting, frightened, cautious and calm, along the tree banks,
He, a maltreated night-fox. Me, a stilled Blue Heron.
We fight in states of confusion, war, with opposing strengths,
But with words to serve as my only weapons, I find none.
I need know, in order that I proceed with this decision,
What places, true-heart or trickery, the man comes from.
Is the approach, welcome, though sudden, with good intention,
Or partially masked and coated with anger and reproach?
Either love and peace, or sadness, has already won,
No discoveries, warm in my hands, until conversations encroach.
Is it love of wisdom, or love of oneself, which causes our elation?
These are my concerns, laid out before us in creation,
And from which I have no earthen place of resolve, left to run.
Though he stays far away, I keep coming undone.
The chapters progressing, we go through stages,
Somehow growing in contrast, flipping one by one.
It wills itself to sit quietly, the love, then darts, steadfast,
Into and out of existence, always hidden and clear of the sun.
It proves to be, of sorts, the kind that lasts,
Alive in memories, imprinted in pasts, if not in reason.
If not in seasons, love reproduces, emanating in energies,
They were here, ready, before the matter had begun.
Time, unlike me, waiting patiently for the queries,
Heart drops, I am left to wade through sea-lengths of stun.
Waiting, frightened, cautious and calm, along the tree banks,
He, a maltreated night-fox. Me, a stilled Blue Heron.
We fight in states of confusion, war, with opposing strengths,
But with words to serve as my only weapons, I find none.
I need know, in order that I proceed with this decision,
What places, true-heart or trickery, the man comes from.
Is the approach, welcome, though sudden, with good intention,
Or partially masked and coated with anger and reproach?
Either love and peace, or sadness, has already won,
No discoveries, warm in my hands, until conversations encroach.
Is it love of wisdom, or love of oneself, which causes our elation?
These are my concerns, laid out before us in creation,
And from which I have no earthen place of resolve, left to run.
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