Reductio

Beakers ready, gentlemen, titration calibrated to the critical degree; unveil the poetry distilled until reagents strike at all the barriers that we erect in love, in agony, in little niches, shadowy within the walls along the course to home. The night is warm and lovely, radiance too harsh for summer's mists; encomium may palliate the grave yet leave it heaving with the frosts of truth. May I not listen to the night? May I not revel in its sweetness? There is the lover with a heart congealed; I would not see the distillate. I could not care, for I am moved not by nuance but by the lumbering advance, the shameless ploy of glorious beasts too wise to manifest themselves within that paradise of art I face, that soft chagrin emerging, ghostlike, from around my pen. ~