literature

Empathy for the Lovers

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     Movement One:  Sonata:  The Lovers.

The theology of passion bests the ecology of innocence.
A martyrdom to achieve transcendent life, bound to freedom.
Love.  Life beyond life.  Immortality in this transcendence.

I am not anyone you have known before, no evidence
exists that I would treat you as they have, where I am from
the theology of passion bests the ecology of innocence.

My words are my music, trouvare of the meme's persistence
that will make of you legend, priestess and queen of my kingdom.
Love.  Life beyond life.  Immortality in this transcendence.

You have my faith and fealty, my dreams fade my reticence
to leap from high parapet, you are my blood and martyrdom.
The theology of passion bests the ecology of innocence.

Do not mistake my manners or kindness for hesitance,
I am vested in the Gotterdammerung.  I am bound to what is to come.
Love.  Life beyond life.  Immortality in this transcendence.

All issues beyond the ken of any, even the poets' eloquence.
Love is like the ether, even to those deaf to their heart's thrum.
The theology of passion bests the ecology of innocence.
Love.  Life beyond life.  Immortality in this transcendence.

     Movement Two:  The Death of Illusions     

The theology of passion.  A bold assertion,
that affections and lust might be a religion,
Aphrodite and Venus and Jesus spun into a cloth
of conflicting aspect.  Catching the light in reds
both crimson and scarlet.  Purifying and a branding
of sin and sanity, the vanity of daring to love.
I have faith in love, if not the lovers,
for we are frail and fail to fulfill the tale
we told ourselves in bolder times of hope.
The rope runs short and our feet still dangle,
with no way to see how far the fall but to let go
and risk everything.  Even our belief in those
we chose to love, unlacing the traces to let fly
with wings of amber and of fire, graceful lies
unwound as the ground falls away and we play
at the phoenix.  We make our own legends.
Fallen angels.  Risen prophets.  And the space between
the hallowed hollowing of our hearts to make room
for the opportunity of a real moment.  Patience.
There is virtue in the long painful climb of the hill
where we know our persecutors would kill us
to prove nothing but their own powers.
And yet, love abides, resides and provides
a portal into the immortal wilderness of the soul.

     Movement Three:  Lyrical Variations on a Dream

Love.  Life beyond life.  Immortality in this transcendence.
In this world we are curled around our own cores.

Fear is the great disabler.  Fear of loss.  Of gain.  Of the stain
of blood and more fel fluids that we drip out, rip out
in moments of surrender, pretending nothing for the instant
when tears are shed by more than eyes.  Making a connection
in more than affection and drunken fumblings, stumbling
up the stairway to the altar when we are to be sacrificed
into our own deification.  Releasing into one another.
The solitary soul is an illusion.  A starving man eats anything
he can get his hands on and dies, poisoned with a full belly.
I want to see you sated in and with this life, wife to contentment.
You are like fractured gems set in the night sky, illuminated
by a mythology we ourselves wrote and sugar-coat
when all along we nod at the pain we will still have to endure.
The purity of you is in your darkest doubts.  I have them, too,
but I have spent too long on the battlefield to accept
the conqueror wyrm as my better.  I will kiss your scars
when the stars are aligned in keeping with your prophecies.

     Movement Four:  The Chaos of Erotic Innocence
      
Tears are wept.  Promises kept except those to ourselves.
A final muse, a tacit refusal to embrace, for now, a future
with only a few certainties, for we are not yet there.
Care if you can, dare if you must, trust what is proven.
We need not play this game so badly or madly, sadly
we have proven ourselves from time to time, incompetent.
I have only faith to support my suppositions, not a thread
of a promised sackcloth and vestment has been offered
without being snatched back by the black hand of fear.
I am here, I am near, it is clear I would not make this walk,
speak this talk, dare your mockery if I was not sincere.
I have wandered the world to find you, and to be kind to you.

We are reborn in the shadow of our own illuminations.
Innocence suffuses us as a choice, a voice of passion
that we can fashion into whatever we want to taunt
the fates that so often have left us, broken and bleeding,
needing more than the nothing we discovered,
but could not bring ourselves to disavow because
we thought pride would protect us, direct us to something,
something more than the dust of lust tasted and wasted
because we couldn't wait for the banquet being prepared
for us in the presence of the enemies of our ascensions.
The chalices of change arrange themselves left to right,
each brew made only for our lips, our tongues, our nourishment.

The smallest sip that touches the lips of my love, I taste.
Cut and pasted to the tapestry.  Not out of weakness,
for I can bend the very winds to my command if needs be,
but because I have taken a solemn vow and am damned
beyond this life if I break it, not to the whim of a deity,
but to my own memory of perfidy and the tyranny
of pale poisons let into the wedding cup.  I acknowledge
that I may stand alone at the end, my passionate friend
having deserted me for less perfect purposes, and this as well
is a definition of Hell, to live out my hours, days and years
with only the screaming winds, drawing from me every thought,
caught in the maelstrom, as company, as I slowly fade.

I would not be changed for the experience, for my love
will remain, in my words and memories and my blistered heart,
beating on until it can no longer find time to bend, to spend
in an eternal passion for you. There are those who would
consider this a wasted life, but we are not measured by love
that comes to us, but by the love we give, unconditionally
and freely, praying in silent corners that our words are heard
and are palatable enough to feed the needs of our paramour.
It is a hard conceit, to walk the line between the divine
and the defiled, seeking subtle seduction through true words.
But anything more or less would be disrespectful of you,
and if I did not feel such awe I would not dare to love.


William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.
An "empathy" in four movements. For the Sunday Girl.
© 2012 - 2024 williamfdevault
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Exnihilo-nihil's avatar
your beautiful art is in the empty north [link]