To My Love Part 3 Tbc

Not that I pity myself While holding a gun on my temple with this gentle discipline, My identity is clear but my behaviour is doubtful To the extent of brutish masculinity – defined as stubbornness. Oh Majesty! of all frozen bouquets of white lilies in the salons of damnation I have walked the road from the desolate meadow of bent archetypes, Where swamps are placed on each side of it by some invisible maniacal hand Of a capricious God, as Christopher used to fancy it, To the organic nature of a relapsed reality, Applicable only in such a nasty dimension. * Chaucer objected absolutism but he would have embraced allegory or eclogue! Aw, - I would use a serpentine and, as the Duke of Swabia marched, I would march that road while firing ignorance with tenderness So it melts in the air before it reaches your lips, And when I look at them I want my eyes to be protuberances that Strike and pierce with no radioactive effect, of course! And that isn’t ordinary! as it wasn’t ordinary in Leonardo’s opus. As we looked at the Birth of Venus, I was in the painting with you. Look at it again! Now! Look at it, please! Do you feel the authenticity of the will to be in every slice? Together as Siamese twins, levitating and untouchable we bear the burden of it. I could never be David as that role does not suit my nature But you know I would be on his side. I wanted to be Perseus, victorious and proud, loved completely Sometimes even an object de culte in particles of joy. Do you remember the flirtation in writing, with no sound, or light with no physicality or touch, or scent? An amputated dimension free of sins at the embassy of platonic love, When the walk of red shoes turned into softness more delicate than moccasin, Within fifteen minutes I have lived all the years I have missed out on, The years of duels, challenges, combats, contests, I call it the age of reverence! Being so privileged, for I thought, if I do just a little more I would reach it, I would enjoy the smell of smut just a little longer, And as luck would have it the curtain fell so hard ending this age, Just like it ended the hopes and dreams of a young Olympian in the making. I cannot be paralysed staring at this Medusan eye that is like the Berlin wall In front of me preventing the pain from being released. There is so much of black paint in the distant and recent past, That like hot glue sticks to any surface of reflection of our souls, And slowly or never fades away. (to be continued...)