"middle love"

used the history of Valentine's to exhibit various dimensions of 'love' that do not exist.

the season's circles
hold due time to mourn
as you stand in the center-
and will to be
born.
how little of you,
i intimately knew
back then-
lost,
in the crazy judgements
of hysterical
men.
the music we sang
still plays in my head
a love so bright,
so real
is
wasted
all said.
my fingertips remember
as do my still lips
the words
of your forgotten poems
smelling like rose hips.
and my eyes-
looked upon the altar as
Love
slowly
bled away-
Seeped
into the womb of Earth
as the conscious dying
pray.
How fickle is man and
his faith
of ever blind color
Till wee Cupid lusts Fauna
runs
from her
holy
brother.
Oh, great
fearless
passion,
strike us all
furiously-
Ripped
like the hides of Rome
in breathless
Ecstacy.
Graceful,
magnificent
have Sorrow and Anguish been-
But i'm tired
of Fancy's tricks
drunk
on the blush wine
of Sin.
Observe me now,
as i fall
from these stark high lines
Hide me
in the mess of perverted affections
so that i might
risk to
survive.
and still-
i know no fear
of this grave
and mortal truth-
to live in vain
my whole damned life
with not a
scar of proof.
to this fountainous beauty
i will never
surrender-
the balance of existence
a convulsion
bruised
and
tender.
i refuse to weep
and provoke
my sacred salty
seed-
to swim in drowning frenzy
against
the powerful waves of need-
for when you catch this
Romance
by its thickly thorned
wreath-
You find Love all alone
in her moment
of tortorous
grief.
And its easy,
so easy
to let her out into the rain
Deaf to the wailing siren,
crushed beneath
the moving
train.

as always-
hin