love, what is love, the timeles question..the age old question of every human walking ..is it hormones.. is it lust to its highest..is it rather heart reaching pain so great it becomes a new feeling all together..ask me that question ill give you my answer.. ask him hell give his answer..ask the old lady moruning her loves death and she will give you her answer..the young man weeping for the lost love that slipped thou his quick fingers..they all have their ideal..they all cry for their ideal of the age old pain they quest for..the ultamate high , the quickness they mourn..

love, what is love, is it kind and forgiveing..forgetful..ever lasting..the souls walking this earth sreaching for the sliver cord,weeping daily, dieing inside for they missed that chance..the age old question of every human..what is love..You ask me i cry.. is burning and mournful, and lost its pain and joy wraped in a beatuful package tossed to the side by the needs of those in love..its forgetting you cried for someone..quick lighting speed demands on the heart for it cries to be loved back as the heart does ..sliped thou fingers time robs youth and beatuy , love replaces grey hairs and wrinkels and tears ..seals up cracks of wounded souls..touches so soft it breaks your heat to think it will fade..love is....clueless..

such that... life continues... regardless
for concern for / of personal whims,
farces and tiresome tribulations...
i'm doubly drunk with grief -
i don't know whether i'm moruning
or drinking: perhaps both,
perhaps neither...
the children in the nearby school are
persistent in entertaining
a break from corrosion rubric mantra...
the same desolate crow heaves out
a harking a barking an anything
but its original: no substitute...
i'll baptise myself by taking a shower...
i hope to forget taking a ****...
i'll drink enough to **** something out...
the world retains its
objective rigidity and lack
of nuance: death's grip forever "realistic"...
but now i don't care to mind
shadow or bow to concrete
evidence of antithesis telekinetic
stones in an omni- litany of a deity...
the lesser servent is adorned with
its crown - such glorious ruling
of ceremony...
i ought to find relief being a confused
expression of:
hangover mourning -
perhaps i drank too much
to numb the pain:
i drank too much to prevent myself
from tear-kneejerk-reactionary: absentee-,
perhaps chewing on some
peppermint...
hard not to pretend to have not
outmaneuvered death
for a ****** with ol' vanity moi...
in the old saying:
it is, done...
         completely: complete -
ouroboros "tamed"...
               after all: death is nothing new:
no nuance, no glaring need for
comparison: no competitive
subjective strategy -
a barrenness of uniqueness is
this numbing extract -
           if only death were a sentence
unto amnesia -
yes... life continues...
objectively, automated regardless of
what "things" might break...
with its omni- litany:
the deity resounds with
perseverance:
don't tame yourself with
an allowance for
claustrophobic subjectivity -
there are forever echoes of life dasein -
forever new
unfathomable elsewheres...
not here, not now...
     grieve for an hour or two...
but return to something
of life...
and veneer and: do good practicality...
you were not supposed
to express the grace
and pragmatism of a mourning
of a tree:
willow or no willow...
oak, birch or pine...
           far less crooked than
a crucifix to be later adorned
in gold and rattled around with
history like some driftwood
atop plum copulas of arch-nemesis
stone upon stone...
hollowed out by castrato choirs.
here, now... i will listen
to the earth breathe...
as i will call the wind your song
to boot.