10-29-2019, 03:12 PM
Modern Love
Death is only a step
away from love.
What an obtuse course to take,
to do anything for love,
that pale and fickle emotion
tethered to bottomless reference
or that mad stream of thoughts
roaring in miserable montage
through rifts in the stricken mind
or something more objective---
nature's course, a fact of life---
even something sacred.
An ambivalent gaze,
a rare yet irresistible smile,
and adornments of the sort
that breathe as you breathe,
that curl up as you curl up:
in the night, on the screen, there is glamor
where you are dressed to sleep,
where your eyes are half-shut
and your whispered words run
like tender touches, buttons pressed.
In the night, there is more truth
to our imagined anecdotes
and half-drunk intimations
on thoughtless, pointless things
than to the walls and shelves and desk
the sun illuminates
as it rises,
as it warms the cold air.
Death is only a step
away from the screen,
and a life lived
is still a life,
a love felt
still a love.
Death is only a step
away from love.
What an obtuse course to take,
to do anything for love,
that pale and fickle emotion
tethered to bottomless reference
or that mad stream of thoughts
roaring in miserable montage
through rifts in the stricken mind
or something more objective---
nature's course, a fact of life---
even something sacred.
An ambivalent gaze,
a rare yet irresistible smile,
and adornments of the sort
that breathe as you breathe,
that curl up as you curl up:
in the night, on the screen, there is glamor
where you are dressed to sleep,
where your eyes are half-shut
and your whispered words run
like tender touches, buttons pressed.
In the night, there is more truth
to our imagined anecdotes
and half-drunk intimations
on thoughtless, pointless things
than to the walls and shelves and desk
the sun illuminates
as it rises,
as it warms the cold air.
Death is only a step
away from the screen,
and a life lived
is still a life,
a love felt
still a love.