Scorn

How could I love one— That fails to grow sickly in love with the word? That thinks them dull to hold, And yet—with great interest, Caresses the hand that writes it? How could I love one— One who is deaf to the music of poetry? Who clutches at me heartily, But believes a phrase… To be but only a phrase? And not a life? Do I live then— Only with my mind? And to scorn that phrase! Not that I have not scorned something in ignorance— Not that I have not disrupted beauty before— But to scorn what I deem the best that I am— How could I love such a one? How could I live to love at all? And yet do I live to love— Even those that detest such words— That have not a pleasant thing to say, Nor an opinion to utter, Nor a care to conceive— And yet I do love Those that will not understand Just as I love without understanding How can I ever find what it is that harms me so— That I may grab it— And effortlessly forgive it! How could I say to you, or he, or she? That you must love something With immaterial means to love? I am harmed foolishly it seems then— Because I am in love with my own dreams My own poetry— And not enough in love with reality While in turn, I scorn As any human would, Just enough to love— But one