Anam Cara

In falls of white breakers and cool cerulean

Sprays

is the reemergence of our Virgin's raiment;

its trenchant procession above, depthless vestiges sent

In a stubborn stifling spleen from it's ascent;

Was the organized chaos of our amour.

One can not just see, but be beguiled;

Weave In its rushing spume,

It's sough of sacral-style;

- I repine in tumultuary disclosure

That I could be so malleable;

So reckless to fall in love, and repose her

For alluring songs; overflowing-adagio

A pouring drop of wash and wade

ambrosia;

And far beyond adagio-allegro,

I will bestow a rose to her

In a passion-trance-bolero cool cascade.

There's a speck of silver in the spittle,

Or at certain slants

the sun beams through the whithering clouds;

immortals wander, faces covered in their shrouds,

and tiny plashes,

The remains of their tears

merge with darker blue

And make a lighter, see-through blue,

And leaves a xanax-dreamy easy light sedation;

her coruscated flow-flirtation,

And like my love in bed, her moistured being

Sprinkled me with dew; and like my lover nude

She was a goddess for my eesome-seeing.

Anam Cara- sink my lotus petal aubergine;

'Ala rasi', but pronounce your abdication;

Have and behold the gold-emblazoned-sun.

I will leave you for sure my kinky-sprayings;

Birds of symmetry mingle in fluttered cries,

Said God, " our acquired choral sky was staying.

But no, I blasphemed- your waterfalls are lies,

I pithy the perception of your laden playing!

They are mirrors; or reflections of reflections,

And mirrored by reflected mirrors of reflections.

What's profounder? A never-setter-star, or

A coveted collapsar? And am I to flounder

Sphere upon sphere

Your fixed stars to Empyrean,

Having written out the ink of all existing pens?

Said all that I have needed said of poesy, because aesthetically speaking,

my eyes have seen the end....and it is....

....it is tragic...

III

What I see is what my naked-now is;

And what I'm to see remains to be seen;

Leave me to my wistful sight

And breathe the sillage-scatter in before it vanishes.

what remains to be seen, what remains

is there and it is not there at all,

It is shape, shadow, shade, mirage,

But whether seen or never saw,

It leaves with me a sillage of a sad dalliance.

Admittedly resigned by your divine law,

I impugn an immortality for me,

for the sake of aesthetics;

and perhaps this is my tragic flaw,

But beauty is nought unless beauty's fleeting.

Think of the colored-coming matutine;

Or the foam, foamed and phomy-Aphrodite;

Were they a chinese peach

Or a never-ender-dream, or a never-ending speech

Of Shakespeare reapeting "once more unto the breach,

Dear friends, once more..." Once more, once more, once more.

Sadness seeps in a sort of melancholy swoon,

Like a stroller sun stuck on the moon;

Darkness masterbating earth with it's long louring,

If I cannot see the falls, is the water still...?....

Tragic....

Take me home; I've seen much, fought in many wars;

Take me home before I'm subject to the God-maraud