Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

January 20, 2015

9.9.14 [roughest of drafts]

No one is looking closely
I consoled her many times.
Today was the first I thought
maybe that's not what
she wanted. Someone close
enough to see her skin
as it fit, near as the world
was getting to it: for how
vulnerable she was, flayed
yet young and hopeful still,
dewy with the very wanting
to be stronger and known while
getting there. I am quite alone
too but capable of presenting
myself infinitely from myopia
to those who peer close; few do,
yes, but enough to reflect many
small parts back discretely to me.
I'm fine: as complete as the vision
of the fly, or bee. Or better yet,
only seen completely by the hive:
gathered granularly as pollen
and rendered the pure energy
dance memory of bees. Yes,
taken up by so many I'm lifted
from my own xenotic crumbling
to zen completion. I see. It wasn't
yet the right time to think this way,
or I was always the wrong one for her
to ask: unable to see her without
seeing myself seeing, and so vastly
accompanied, blinded by the muchnness
as to bumble like a fool into the naught.

Posted by Delire at January 20, 2015 03:38 PM