And from the poetry,
The men find the threads
Of happiness
And their own work
In bitter shreds,
Where love alone will not suffice
To quench the bubbling,
Burning waters;
In the good, they only find
They’re bitter- where the weeping
Women will whimper once
To signify that the chime
They have drowned with those
Lamenting breaths,
And love alone,
Does not fulfil them.
It does not suffice.
It cannot hold the longitude
It wishes to clutch,
From images, performances,
All made as one creation,
Merely a relation
To synchronise the falsity
And reality to one,
More opposites when they are
Twinned to the watchful eye,
Who waits over the edges,
Seeing only what must be:
Perpetuality is little different
From perplexity,
Where eternity might be irony
In irons interlocked,
My flaming heart more
Flammable, hotter by deceit.

The End

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