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I know now, watching you sleep beside
me, that questions are never answered by
the mind. They are poised to divide
the heart, the doubt a swamp that I
must cross but dare not step in its tide:
for the mist of the mire chokes my
every pore and all I want is to hide
on dry sand. But for you, I
plunge into the fen, death still denied
as I breathe the putrid mud, to try
to glimpse another end, another side -
that same celestial mystery shimmering by
the surface. You are a crystal inside
deep water, reflective of the dark, my
illusion parrying touch. I want it to collide
with me, no longer an image or a lie.
Please, I beg, be a reality.
Still, though it floats before me,
I cannot reach out for
it. My heart is deaf to my plea.
And yet we both know if I were
weak enough to pluck it, we
would both disappear, to waver
as illusions in the wasteland debris.
Why must I watch my death? I harbor
only a single hope that I can see
you smile, the simple joy of a lover...
even if you face away from me.
What is this ‘love’ a peculiar,
enslaving word - a half-syllable glassy
with doubt, shameless, wanton in her
ending sound? Where is the other gloomy
half of the word? Must I wait for
an echo I know will not heed?
Torture me, Delilah. My heart, pure ore
will rest forever in your muddy
waves, a foolish hope for your pleasure.
I will wish that your smoky
waters shall trick me once more,
and I will turn to see your hazy
face, finally smiling towards me.