timeless torture
love is the only thing that can not be conditioned. taught. actions in habit can give the look of love. but love is rogue. it is. or it's not. and possessors. and desirers. are prey to love's decisions
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in the hush of its confusion, love plots fury - unleashed in guide to its own predictable rampage
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at least, this is what love is infamous for. at least, this is what burns in memory. at least, this is the lasting mark love leaves on the world. pouring ache from the hearts of too many to record. still, it remains recorded in the echos of existence
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love isn't hostile. it's just independent. fiercely independent. especially in a culture, in a lifetime that insists on control. and so, love offers no apology. as i am. or. as you are. or. as you were. love seizes opportunity. even when opportunity is weighed in singular vote
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it's. that is, love is. akin fumbling in the dichotomy of age. try to stay with me. the perception: sweet & nice = age; aged = sweet & nice. still headed straight. but, age is just the accumulation of anything. not just years. of, yes, anything. because. bearing to the left here. in the simple truth of addition. is the undeniable truth of more. and. more, of which, vows for age: duration of existence; bring to maturity; a particular period of history . . . as noted in the overall encapsulation of the moment. back on the main route, only slightly uphill. which means, racists grow up to be big, old racists. only. winding back to my starting point. love insists endearment of the elderly. and, in giving, we often confuse deference for attributes. fumbling in dichotomy of age
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by a rose named Ba
Did I tell you? I have kept each flower you have given me. The long-stem, single rose you placed in my palm from the timid, anxiousness of your own - not knowing mine were equally timid and anxious. That rose’s bulb drooped at the neck, heavy with pride. It reminded me of our first night together. Then, it’s bulb was thirsty – I knew because I was too. It was scarlet, it’s leaves withered and it made me flightless with it, not wanting to leave us. At the hems, that rose became a desperate stalk before stalk less. Did I tell you? Each bouquet you have ever apologized with decorates my kitchen counter, paints my bedroom. My living room tastes of each petals scent. They are dried, like my heart, seeking a bottomless pool of watery substance, like me – my spirit. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
the same can be said. and explained. of patience, self knowledge & appreciation. back behind the wheel. peculiar punishment - hurting self to hurt others. a strange, effective tactic. that does - at its core - mean the hurtee. hurting self. is actually a self-centered, presumptuous ass. or. a desperate being. with no more worth. other than self. do these folks actually know suffering. surely self-provoked, prolonged suffering has a buffer. but, then aren't we all subscribers. to peculiar punishment: love
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told you, fumbling. although, not entirely. love works both ways. which is why it can, does, will work for and against
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it just happens, that love's legacy is in its against. these victims are compelled to cry out in pain
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when a person is in love. they are quiet. they are watchful. they are cautious and caring. not to lose it. reckless in self abandonment, yes. but not in regards to every and anything else. they have love. they need it to last. when it ends. they do, too. and in the fall are many emotions, words, pleas, tears, questions, and quests - secret and not - to reclaim the lost prize
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love is a timeless torture because love founds everything; love is a timeless torture because love destroys all; love is a timeless torture because it has done so, and because love continues
to be
a
bless'ed
curse
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