I had always thought that Love
Would open the floodgates,
Would make of me
A giant vial,
Tipping me over and causing me
To spill out the sweetest poison.
Love came, in his crafty, shy way,
And as he announced himself,
I prepared, filing through my thoughts,
My bank of literary currency,
Searching for the most succulent of metaphors,
The most shining of similes,
And twenty-six alliterations for
Twenty-six letters.
I sat at my island,
Pen in hand,
Pensive smile on my lips.
My heart was full of music,
And I said, like Orsino,
"If music be the food of love,
Well,
Give me more!"
I sat,
And waited.
I waited,
And nothing came.
No sounds to move my heart to dance,
No symbols to make my eyes twinkle,
No product, no design,
Nothing at all to say.
It is not that Love has made my head blank.
Rather, it is that Love has made
Me mute.
Love waltzed in,
More elegant than I ever will be,
And, approaching from behind,
Placed his solid and ice cold hand
Over my poor, unmoving mouth,
Paralyzed with a smile.
Love spun me around to face him,
Taking my arms forcefully, and said,
"Dance with me."
My mouth remained paralyzed, but
Oh, how my feet flew!
How they skated across the floor
So recently turned to ice
At the courteous request of Love.
How he spun me like a spindle,
How he pricked my finger upon its
Needle. How he smiled and smiled,
And how I took in nothing but his eyes.
They were not an icy blue as one might imagine.
Instead, they contained a shallow blackness,
Darkness divine.
Where mortals have mere specks of color
In their eyes, flecks like those on marbles,
Love has the stars.
Love has the universe in his eyes,
And the universe has mirrors,
And the mirrors have eyes
That grasp yours,
And soon you know not
What you are witnessing.
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 11:24 PM UTC
I had always thought that Love
Would open the floodgates,
Would make of me
A giant vial,
Tipping me over and causing me
To spill out the sweetest poison.
Love came, in his crafty, shy way,
And as he announced himself,
I prepared, filing through my thoughts,
My bank of literary currency,
Searching for the most succulent of metaphors,
The most shining of similes,
And twenty-six alliterations for
Twenty-six letters.
I sat at my island,
Pen in hand,
Pensive smile on my lips.
My heart was full of music,
And I said, like Orsino,
"If music be the food of love,
Well,
Give me more!"
I sat,
And waited.
I waited,
And nothing came.
No sounds to move my heart to dance,
No symbols to make my eyes twinkle,
No product, no design,
Nothing at all to say.
It is not that Love has made my head blank.
Rather, it is that Love has made
Me mute.
Love waltzed in,
More elegant than I ever will be,
And, approaching from behind,
Placed his solid and ice cold hand
Over my poor, unmoving mouth,
Paralyzed with a smile.
Love spun me around to face him,
Taking my arms forcefully, and said,
"Dance with me."
My mouth remained paralyzed, but
Oh, how my feet flew!
How they skated across the floor
So recently turned to ice
At the courteous request of Love.
How he spun me like a spindle,
How he pricked my finger upon its
Needle. How he smiled and smiled,
And how I took in nothing but his eyes.
They were not an icy blue as one might imagine.
Instead, they contained a shallow blackness,
Darkness divine.
Where mortals have mere specks of color
In their eyes, flecks like those on marbles,
Love has the stars.
Love has the universe in his eyes,
And the universe has mirrors,
And the mirrors have eyes
That grasp yours,
And soon you know not
What you are witnessing.