I'll love you till the bluebells forget to bloom;
I'll love you till the clover has lost its perfume.
I'll love you till the poets run out of rhyme,
Until the twelfth of never and that's a long, long time.
Twelfth of Never
Songwriters: Jerry Livingston / Paul Webster
A love song that blooms with perfume and rhyme,
Even when bluebells, clover and poets run out of time.
Words, may we never forbear their cleverness.
Let us birth verses until the twelfth of neverness.
It’s been, and it shall be, a long, long time of runic
and a Poe-, Shakespeare- and Plath- worn tunic.
Ever-creating from Adam to now, and past these days.
Love is at our fingertips, working a well-begotten phrase.
10/28/2022
The art of real living falls upon the inert egos of us all and their antiquated mused ill givings. When we can encounter those mannered inequalities that keep us intolerant and locally dead, forlorn to a fault and viscous in our vows,
dig deep into an hitherto undone voyage for that quantum ecstasy ecoquotient; compatible,
but ever illicit in their aged desires to domindegradate all living things.
Unless we can alter our ignocomplacency with a supreme and stalwart Awareness;
to begin to discover the stuppored laziness of thee/our inner self,
the spiritual safety net binding us all,
it will surley lead us down a path of never neverness of scope and eventual extinction.
Only when we begin to thought palpitate unconditional loving amidst a nirvananess aplenty, being our Souls first,
can we collectively begin to visualize, aspire
take a one now first step toward
a truly evolved consciousness, viable and worthy of our species
with constant universal continuance proving our
measure and compassion to exist.
One spark and down we fall
Into the memory of dark despair
One word, and there is all
The helplessness of all we dare
Can I lie
To shield myself from pain
Can I try
To drown memory's stain
In tears, in lies, in grief
In all the sameness of the human cry?
Oh, how am I to purge my mind
Back to the bliss of neverness?
How am I to tell a lie
Until I can't remember this?
Can I even try to deny myself experience?
Rain beats down against the window-pane
As my soul cries tears at memory's sweet stain
Existence is all that I know
Oh who am I to stem the flow
Of grief, the inner tide that yet defies the lie of innocence
But what is bliss?
'Tis innocence
To never know
Oh never let me know myself for what I am
All Truth revealed could never dam
The tide of yearning, not for who I am, but who I was before I knew what it could be to know
Would that my soul could flow back into what it was!