Toujours--Jamais--

(one of my very few macaronic poems. If you read even a little French, you will understand why I chose this form) Your tongue embraces paradox, Monsieur, in its perpetual romance, and most condign, the dancing words that fall upon my psyche, as the lorelei I seek would not do well beneath the moonlight-- wet and tender, laughing. Her illumining is from within, and her faint call may not be heard at all--for like the drifting ship with all hands lost at sea-- or yet the Voyager that dies among the stars, her presence is a question, not a creed-- as when a wave would deliquesce upon an island somewhere, leaving only echoes susurrus within the winds along the shore. Might there be more, Monsieur? C'est impossible; c'est vrai. C'est la musique, decouler de mon coeur. Toujours...jamais... toujours ~