Reflect upon a moment in your life when true happiness consumed you...a moment deficient of fear and doubt...a moment when your life felt suddenly and absolutely flawless as if someone or something was gracing you with a rare glimpse into the source of all perfection. Now imagine if that moment could be grasped and elongated, but not merely over the course of time but for all eternity, absent of time, where the past, present, and future are harmonized into a dimension of a pure and infinite unison of love. This is Heaven.
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I sit alone struggling not to cry. Yesterday my life shattered before my eyes. Almost everything I hold dear. The object of my obsession over the course of time. The love of my life. The one I hold above anyone else. For now has been all but lost completely. Shattered I sit alone with only one thing on my mind. If you love something let it go. If it comes back to you it always has been and always will be yours. If it doesn't than it never has been and never will be yours. I have let you go. I pray that one day you will return. Still I sit alone trying to retrieve the pieces of my so-called life. I am crying now. Crying for what I have lost for the moment. Crying for fear that I may never love another quite like I loved you. Crying for fear that I may never find another quite like you. I sit lying in wait for a chance to regain what I have lost. Close I will stay to you. Waiting for your choice to go astray and cause you to fall. I will be waiting right there to catch you. but for now I am the sad shell of a man who once was. I feel as though a part of me has died deep inside. Sitting alone for yesterday my life as I know it was shattered.
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'Orthodox medicine condones ill-conduct and seeks to restore health without rectifying it. True health cannot be attained in this manner. Vivisection has no philosophy, no ethics, and no width of vision. It will, therefore, disappear in the course of time.'
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What a poem means is as much what it means to others as what it means to the author; and indeed, in the course of time a poet may become merely reader in respect to his own works, forgetting his original meaning.
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