Dreams, Memories, Regrets
Set in your mythologyyou banish inquiry;
your gestures speak a language,
your words another.
I know this is the nature of
our humanity:
our souls protect our hearts,
for life itself is given there;
to guard this trust our souls
create the myths
and honor this protection with
the gracefulness of each
delicate history
we offer as our lives,
leaving a mysterious morality.
Your soul is not unknown to me,
spoken of before;
perhaps you might recall:
'would I transform
to show its beauty
and its danger
this very spirit
I find so completely
irresistible,
so filled with human
frailty
and yet somehow
divine;
its innocence a
mockery
of its own denial'
Now,
is it that we must accept
the paradox
to see the beauty?
If I could endow
this spirit with one gift,
one gift alone,
it would not be my heart
which I gave freely,
but imagination,
that key of light
which rises the heart
out from its fears
into freedom,
and gently enables it
to leap
just one step beyond
where it thought to be;
its vision witness
what realms unveil'd
when the truth is told.
Not the truth
of one heart to another,
all full of anguish,
but the secret truth
friends tell
when the darkness
is no longer bearable.
For this
is what you gave to me
once.
My soul
long before abandoned,
protecting parts easily seen:
the flesh, the sense
of time unfulfilled,
covered like a shroud
my exploding heart;
in the presence of your
sensibilities,
my failing imagination
restored.
You gave me this,
far more
than the superficial expectations
we had then:
you must not be disappointed.
If my graciousness of late
has not been readily apparent,
my confusion known to you,
let my frailty be given its due;
my heart refuses to die
and you are set in your
mythology.
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