when silence is as dissonant
as the discordant pings of echoes
reverberating in the hollowness,
bouncing between sappy probability
and pending pangs of dreams.
when the sacristy of all the rendezvous
that never were, crumbles under a
dilapidating dream house built on
teetering stilts of words.
when what was a shamelessly,
merely-imagined, myopic blur
recoils into an embarrassed
fetal positioning, curling timorously
into the cuckold solitude
of love-sick desire annulled.
when what seems over—is,
and the heart knows no reason
valiant enough to hold on,
to press on with matchsticks
against the whirling windmill
of delusion and quixotic élan.
when life goes on, and the
vertigo of hope and alchemy
no longer promise to miraculously
change the misery of memory
into a potent philter of love.
when this is so—it is time to go
and to return all that really never was
,
to step back, renounce and exorcise
that demon of spurious hope
that might otherwise continue to dupe
and haunt you in the indefinite space
of never was and forevermore.
the art of love
l.m