Impossibility

I like juxtaposition.

Flightless wings and loveless hearts search for that which is unseekable in the blinding darkness. In the company of loneliness, symphonies of discord elate the ears of the deaf with their song. Marching to its ill-timed beat, peaceful war opponents kill for that which has been named free to all. The selfish gift of charity is given with stubborn compromise and the creators of destruction sign their death warrants with inkless pens. That sinful purification, done with such loathsome likeability, is greeted with malicious smiles while in the comfort of isolation, enjoyable pain is inflicted, providing detrimental improvement to the detached whole. At last, the tragedy of happiness meets its infinite end with a diamond shattering, steel flexing silent scream, and enlightenment clouds the minds loosely fixated on the intangible reality. While in the crowded privacy of familiar strangers, the bitter root is made into honey while concrete nets are cast to catch that which flows through dry beds. Across the world, conducting their heat through the ice, quenched deserts (oases of desolation) satiate the emptiness of the atomic universe. Therein, hatefully cherised ideals of love are given lifeless animation full of devilish grace, and with a fearful bravery report their misplaced findings. And with an animalistic human certainty, the untrue facts are simply stated; but what is most naturally bizarre is the truthful falsehood and the fragmented completion of the words:

I do not love you.

The End

1 comment about this poem Feed