Reason is no poetry
Nor syllogism a poem.
Feeling looks for verse,
Like will needs a body and a birth,
And a curse for infinite passion.
But when passion has eloped with your hair
And you ask yourself
Is it too early to take stock of the frame
in terms of the fragments of those lost ‘present’,
the cadavers of moments, called ‘Age’?
Or hold up to the long endured figments
And just pass over the Grand Gaze.
Your desire is no regret
But a hope for recurrence,
May be to re-live the follies of youth
In each ‘Cycle’ and forever.
As each cycle, we are told, whispers a secret
That each of its truth is not ‘the truth’
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