3.14.2011

X

Like a dream of falling, when at the moment of impact I'm jolted awake and made aware of my safety, the realization struck as a nudge over the precipice of affection--complete (and replete) with an initial stumbling and the eventual accepting-enjoyment of the tumble--marking with gratuitous surprise the third time I've sojourned this bluff, steep as it seems, and the first time I've willfully chosen my path in an ominous sky; and with it all, a mark of imperfection, and without it all, relief--a moment not taken to deftly awaken this vastly integrated culmination that what I wanted was illusory and what existed, more so--that my desire was real and just and (eventually) just beyond the Cave or the Stoic Calm and, in fact, something I cherish as the purpose and the beauty and the life of meaning, but that the desired [oh! the "gorgeous" desired] was but a shadow puppet maiden cast by a gloved hand--where beneath the velvet, where lips should meet skin, rainclouds.

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