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Mar 2018
Orlando furioso, in your name
I dare not raise a violent hand in jest;
I’ve learned too well that pain is not a game.
If I’ll be guided by a candle’s flame,
Its light compassion, you’re a shroud, darkness.
Orlando furioso, in your name
And mine, on your behalf, I’ll carry shame;
I’ll chant a eulogy some might attest
I’ve learned too well. That pain is not a game
For two, for any number. What's to blame?
What burned away your wits? What was your test,
Orlando furioso? In your name
I can’t duck out, no hiding where I came
From, where I’ll die before I go. I’m blessed
I’ve learned too well that pain is not a game,
Far more a lineage I’d hate to claim,
A leaving I’ll revile within my breast,
Orlando furioso! In your name
I’ve learned too well that pain is not a game.
The trouble I face as a formalist is this: where form seems archaic, where my language seems archaic, where these things intersect, there lies a magical gateway to sounding inauthentic.
Breon
Written by
Breon  28/M
(28/M)   
196
 
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