People say, sometimes, somewhere something
makes them the men they are today. I, generally,
jest that I don’t believe them or believe men are
moved by emotions measured relative to mountain
ranges or earthquakes quaking. Sometimes I don’t
believe in believing and negate any notion to the
contrary.
However, I’ve had to reconsider all preconceptions
of conceptions as of late. Worth the wait? For sure
(like an insurrection formed by the most destitute
of men) except my mutiny/this pen rises boldly
slashing through despair like sword swash-buckling
buckles the knees ’neath captain’s calves on white
flagged ship once headed no-where (now steers clear
using her heart for my North Star).
I once thought that love was simply mutated lust,
a corrupted version…
its origin: an ornament on the brain, dingles like
dinner bells dangle as female orifices swell and
swallow lives whole, excreting only bones.
Love: from bone-like response in trousers of males,
and “in love” a creation created like pearls.
I was told that it was the highest ideal, the fruition of
existence, beyond existentially existing...
that we came from it, and go back to it like clay from a kiln;
shattered, pieced together, and put right back in.
They say it completes us. Of course, I had to discredit
since from where I sit most of man(the species)
doesn’t even deserve it. I’d say “….but hey, who am I”
in any reply regarding the nature of what I thought it was that
men wanted from women, or women from men,
but that was then, oh that was then.
And she walked into my life. She just walked right in,
fitting perfectly into each other/we are jigsaw lovers. Just
repeating her name my in mind dissolves disenchantment…
I am her gravity, she is my world; the mass of our
love determines the course
We’re from the kiln in the clouds that created souls,
forged from stardust we fell in our world. My pieces
fell in place, the puzzle is solved. The answer spells
simply: A Beautiful Thing