the lost man chronicles
book two: the art of love
Love pangs and the walls echo yearning yesterday through the wayward ways of the hollow of my heart.
I cannot forget the abrupt ending, the letters lending hope and leading me astray; to that glorious day of our beloved start.
When suddenly my eyes glazed and my emotions were amazed by all the beauty of the world standing across an empty stage before me.
It was as if someone had broken all the church windows on a whim, while within I knelt in pure behest, and all the incoming radiance of this enlightenment congealed to pour all of heaven's truth through a small hole in my pining breast.
It was this test that made me whole, when until then I had merely been half of what I was to become.
Hungry on the horizon of learning the paradise found, in her who would come to be for me, my personal land of milk and honey, and who would also strike the knell when she deemed it had to end, and inform me from a safe six hundred miles away that all was lost.
The cost was the haunting. The daunting thought that was no less than thirty loves ago, and I merely on the brink of 35, in the middle of knowing what it is to be alive, still die every time I go into the nostalgic mist of this initiation, the scars of unrequited frustration which remind me of the inferno I traversed to journey from ignorant bliss to knowing worst, when my heart did burst and I came to understand what it is to lust, lose and never so naively love again.
the art of living the art of love