Thursday, May 31, 2007



Who was that fool who said he couldn't live
Without more passion in his life? Well, now

He has more passion pressing on all sides

Than he can handle, and it serves him right.

He'd dreamed of life where once more he would give
And take the heat, so sure he still knew how,

Forgetting that where passion long abides,

The heart can burn to ash in just one night.

Embraced at last, held close and all aquiver,

Now at passion's altar he must bow

Admit its moonish power to move the tides

Of blood, to yield great heat and little light.

Not every dream-come-true shows Nightmare's face;
Reflect before you wish, though
just in case.


It's plain, I fear: his heart is not like ours.
Its walls are cased in stone, its keep enclosed,

Made fast against all heartbreak, made to stand

Against all love, immune to all its powers.

And still his magnet flesh draws us to those

Hard rocks and shoals on which our hearts must land,

And onward to those petrifying towers

His heart holds fast against all love, all woes.

We cry though it confounds his clear command;

Why can't he see that love, although it cowers,

Can also take a less defensive pose?

Come, sally forth to parlay, heart in hand!

His heart prefers the armor of his keep;

And in his arms our broken hearts find sleep.


My rival (not my rival, really) knows
Exactly how I feel, and how I fell.

Embarrassed, I must cede him this advantage:
Love makes him my elder. So it goes.

Can I read his heart even half so well?

Or do I just project upon this man

Responses I have felt to what we chose?

Most likely: we each build our private hell...

We end, indeed, so near where we began;
We lay our hopes aside beside our clothes.

His call is our command, he casts a spell,

And he may choose us both, because he can.

I've never felt so naked, fully dressed:

It seems that, without speaking, I've confessed.

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