Monday, March 15, 2010

The Tragedy of the Cosmos

My rose colored-glasses have been shattered
And as they begin to fall piece by piece from my eyes,
A shard nicking an elbow here
Another slicing a thigh there,
Bits of her character are sharpening into focus.

Upon that unceremonious introduction
I all too quickly became besotted by the warm and familiar feelings of love.
I supposed her faultless and inerrant
As one tends to do when smitten.

Of course it is insensitive to presume someone flawless.
Insensitive indeed, to presume one pristine
only later to be grieved
In finding a discoloration about her.
Swindled one feels.
But has it been forgotten, the tint through which one was peering?

Dreadfully unfair the sting of love can be.
How inequitable it is that some have the antidote to love’s venoms,
While others are fated to feel its full potency
Coursing through diaphanous veins?

Alas, this is how it must be.
For how would one know when to breathe
If the world weren’t eternally pitching a glass of water in the face?

Yet, I would gladly bear this Anguish,
This Lament,
This Suffering,
This Consuming Fervor within me,
For her.

An entirely selfish notion it is
But it is one I afford myself nonetheless.
This small thing I am spared.
To keep the blood in my veins,
To keep the air in my lungs –
To keep my heart from eroding.

In spite of the lot,
Some sparkle,
Some twinkle,
Some coruscation of rarity I still see in her.

It is for this reason I willingly absorb her abuses.
I gladly subsume the indecencies
So that she may,
Even for the briefest of moments,
Be untouchable,
Righteous I dare say.

Granted, this may only be the appreciation of
The slightest woman of all and sundry.

However inconsequential this morsel is
I will carry on,
Following my naïve heart
Wherever it may lead me.
To the most delusional,
The most fanciful,
The most quixotic of places.

And when I am there
I will bask in the warmth of another’s grandeur,
However fleeting,
However envisaged,
However evanescent it may be.

And I will give her
Her moment of perfection.

As vain as it is,
This is the gift I have to offer.
This is the legacy I hope to pass on.
To feel wholly, each Elation,
Each Despondency,
Each Confusion,
Each Chagrin,
Each Loss
And each new beginning.

To feel all of these things,
Feel them, but not to dwell upon them.
And to remember the great loves of life
And how they were made immortal by your hand.

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