A False Venus

This must be love

It’s nothing like you said it was, and yet, I am so sure

I’m young, maybe, naive?

It’s true

and yet I think I’ve known of deeper things

of stronger things

than liking, or desire

of passion, ice and fire

I see the mountains of the world

the oceans churning in their rage

that innocent blue sky above us

in her eyes.

Those eyes that shimmer, pale

like the clouded new moon bright in its birth

and the fires of a familiar hearth

the warming glow of home.

And in her hair I see the silky smoothness of obsidian

Dark, impassive, yet it holds a conspiratorial glitter.

Like the feathered softness of a raven’s wing

fierce, and destructive, yet no one can deny

it’s beauty.

And I see it the most clearly of all.

I see in her face, her open face

the hue of rippling desert sands

that scorch travelers and locals alike.

I see the bark of young trees smooth,

slender arms spread trustingly out in an open embrace.

How can I see this harshness and this youth?

I see a face as young as a sapling

and as old as a canyon.

And still within my mind’s eye holds

an image of her lips

Soft pink like a dying rose

still regal in its upright stand

stem holding firm but weak

Pink like the fading of a scar,

but a slight blemish on the skin

it holds the pain of memory.

Oh, how I would press my lips against

those open petals.

Those long-healed wounds

with the fervour of a saint

who believes his touch can bless

Oh, how I would bless her!

You say that I know nothing now of love,

of devotion

and yet tell me why every shadow on her face

flits through my mind again?

Why every word she speaks replays in silence

her voice resounding like a lone harp in a long dead orchestra

that plays now only in my delusion?

Perhaps I am deluded

I know she could never love me with the ardor that I feel

like poison running through my veins.

Nor would I want her to.

For how much easier is it

to worship an unseen goddess than a

flower in my hand?

A mortal beauty that must fade with time, as all things fade

against the firm held promises I cling to

that will never come to fruition.

I would much rather offer her my sacrifices

my every possession

than to know her, and hold her by my chest

For then the dream so long desired

would become a reality taken for granted

Cherished, at first

but reality has a way of twisting the extraordinary

diminishing the beauty held in mortal gaze.

And she would be so dissolved.

So here I harbour these delusions, these praises

that I create for the illusion I alone have wrought

I fill her with my promises, my fantasies, my angels

For I know that to know her

would be to destroy the woman I’ve made

the goddess I’ve worshiped

And already, I’ve spilt too much blood

on an altar for a Venus

that does not exist.

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

i really like this...sometimes we build this person in our mind from dreams, fantasies, longing---but the reality is not quite what the fantasy is---the speaker here has that understanding in the end, and that is good because the expectations will not be so unreachable...expectations should be thrown out the window anyway---if we accept and embrace love as it comes to us...it will grow into something more special than we ever could have fantasized....

j.

[The Hampstead Poet]

I'm glad you found this piece interesting, thank you for your review.

[alifeacoustic]

A beautiful and descriptive flow of thoughts looking at what love means within your feelings, compared to what others feel and the beauty and preciousness you see and feel from within. Sometimes we heap false praise on the wrong people, but is that false praise any less real than what another tells you is complete love? How can we ever be sure that what we feel is what others feel, when someone touches our lives in so many different ways.
Individuality and conscious thought are humanities blessing, and it's Achilles heel.
Beautifully penned, with free flowing lines that blend into each other seamlessly, leaving the reader thinking about it long after it has been read. Great job.

[The Hampstead Poet]

Thank you, I'm glad you enjoyed this piece!