...Alike To The Rivers; Water and Brimstone...

(Proud of this poem, so it gets a separate page). Love, as seen through nature's day, as fire and water, the strongest elements in their combination stronger.

Love is the pleasant and growing statute,
Viscous to the point of fluidity,
When one heart is divided between
Two substances to dance within,
Passion painted, bodies mixing;
It drips and curls like fire and ice,
And a raging storm with a boiling centre.
A mountain, volcanic, vomits
Water and brimstone up against
The firmest rock that has moulded
Ideas, been created with deluded liquids,
Bubbling out of the ashen waste.
Above the oft-worked rockface,
My star’s fires have cooled to the sort
Of stubborn ice I let harden around bones;
There is a frozen spectrum
Of a sunset caught in the gaze of haunting
Midnight, startled by that sudden turn,
That the darkness would court,
Play so slyly with emotions.
And that sun cannot believe the existence:
Softly sounding are the tears of worlds
Forgone, but pattering upon the earth, too.
Her eye observes the passing ground,
Burning in the sweet twilighten notes,
Waxing like the lyrical instrument of desire
As it prepares itself to rise another day,
Another distance into colder space.
All could be changed above that vista.
Instead all fields are alike to the rivers
Pouring through them with literal caress,
The skyline pours down a glow that summons
Better crimson scenes in a reflection,
Or a consideration‘s shimmer.
She, who spurred on such trickling tongues,
Each drop another incense entrapped
By piano voices: amore e musica.
The rhythm of the day hovers above,
A structure so intrepid when this one
Has broken out from the roughen pouring
Of metal-ore, of an iron driving;
Born of consequential lines,
Its shadow feeds upon the beauty cast.
Not perfection, simply a falling
Rainbow of stardust and cinnamon lights.
Mountain standing harsh has one
Resentment built from the tides:
“Solitary,” cries the hot lips,
Sapping strength from a uniform soul,
As taken is the still-warm breath,
The night’s last extension against
Our crops- and skin is shivers split.
A picturesque exterior, but beneath nature’s course
Turns eyes to hatred, insignia burning,
Hands to drowning the youthful melancholia,
When an ocean lines the waves with tips
Of a simmering flame,
Burning out; if love can take from nature,
Can its rule be true and passive,
When the touch is one state, two,
When the storm is wrecked throughout?

The End

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