Until these words
I write infuse with truth
Then shall remain
their utterance taboo,
Except in voices
prone to language foul,
To lie unmarried
in the folds of sound.
By no more than
these words will I be bound,
With manacle
of consonant and vowel,
In the asylum
of love’s stringent rule
Until these words
I write infuse with truth.
In such a reservoir
of rhyme I drown
Those prostitutes
of metaphor I found;
Fragments of
a sight that blinds the eye,
Whose nomenclature’s
commonly defined
And loudly mourns
the heart though not the mind;
Whose ageless
character still shadows mine.
Under which strict
observance it is found,
In such a reservoir
of rhyme I drown.
Though from this
brutal grasp may I escape,
To stand again,
duality to face.
My second self,
whose knowledge spans all days,
Has seen my words
before they strike page;
Her memory a
ruin before it fades,
Contains all
sentiment usurpers trade,
And by their
curses devils incantate,
Though from this
brutal grasp may I escape.
The farther through
the rain I root to meet
The last location
of our household dreams,
More distant
from the window are the drops
Of memory that
fall upon the throng
Of circumstances
neither right nor wrong,
And whose recurring
scene shall never stop
Unless by force
of will, or so it seems,
The farther through
the rain I root to meet
The free intrinsic
beauty of your words
To strike the
subject deeper than its nerve
And render calm
the violence of the thought
That minus this
command would it be lost;
The price to
pay would be too high a cost
Though for such
tender could the world be bought.
Instead I wait
and hope I still deserve
The free intrinsic
beauty of your words.
