The Bird of Love (takes flight?)

Pity the fool who claims
to have fallen in love;
to have fallen in love
with a fool like me…!
What shall you gain,
except for a desire
to reflect on yourself
in the name of love,
in the name of a love
that is true in YOUR world.

And, what shall you gain,

than a desire perhaps,

to deflect yourself,

to despise yourself,

in the name of a ‘love’,

true only, in your world.
This love for a dame
As wandering as I,
As gentle as I,…
As ‘deceiving’, as I.

Though yes, of course,
I never deceive for the sake
Of deception,
Or to settle for some other
object of affection…
But there’s nothing here
you would like to own;
Not even this heart:
this lump of flesh,
this vessel, of blood…?

My blood a life,

a life not mine,
only to be shared,
never surrendered
And never given away:
Given away, so as to
render me lifeless!

This heart belongs,
truly, to the one,
Who strives not
for the sinful bliss
seized in the chimera:
a mistaken feeling,
of possession.


“Be mine”, he says.
I say, “Be yours first.”
He says, “I AM mine.”
I say, “So am I.”

He looks at me,
eager, “So are you, what?
“No, I am mine too,
just as you are yours.
My madness, for me;
My laughter, for me.
And what could you share,
but only a few hours,
hours by the clock?
You share your body,
But your eyes block me out,
Block my passage to your soul.”

Taking my words
for a passing remark,
for a poet’s thought:
fleeting, yet haunting;
He tries to convince me,
“My soul is yours.”
I answer,
“So you thought to give me
what you want for yourself,

the least?”

A wise bargain indeed,
coming from a man
too much of the world;

a world, strange indeed,

to a stranger as I.



I am getting tired:
Tired of being tired,
And now tired of that too…

I am changing,
From what into what,
I do not know; wish not to know,
And to just let it be, and unfold to me.
This wish itself feels odd,
But not without its reward:
The desire to know all,
Is departing my tired mind;
The mind which would desire then,
To translate its knowing into words.

And what are words after all…
Except for a waste of a poet’s Life,
And what are words after all,
But a cheap alternate for feeling,
And what are words after all,
But solace, in a time of healing!?
And what do words mean?
When chanted by lingering Death…
And what do words mean?
When whispered on an angel’s breath…

And what are words but loose feathers,
And what are words but wings!
What are words but Cupid’s arrows,
Or bullets in the chests of kings!
And what are words but bitterness,
And what are words but a smile,
What are words but knots in the tying,
What are words but a passing while!