the failure of reason

I did this piece called, 'If memory is a lie then so am I', in it was a reference to that American Gulag called Guantanamo Bay Prison, where incarceration is an endless train of shadows on the wall -- however, it was noted in a documentary that a majority of prisoners shared their experiences with each other in the form of Poetry; not just mystical-romanticism but post-modern angst as well - almost everyone of them wrote poems to capture their plight and increase their sight, to harbor hope as a light to over-come fright, which is the real-deal if ya' feel-me ...

Romanticism sings siren-songs alluring you to the craggy-shore of love-me, baby, love-me-more -- or, for the longing swells of the ever-peregrinated, where longing is what makes you go-baby-go, to grow 'n stretch beyond the fatal-skin 'yer in --

a conflicted Romanticism as a plaint of a Beauty which cannot be captured nor knows any fear, yet is neither consummated in passionate embrace, a kiss-less kiss, a touch-less face, so sHe goes to that longing Love that shall ne'er be won, peregrinated to follow an ancient aching heart 'til life is done -

in Romantic Mysticism the longing is often an allusion to the ever seeking Heart toward the beloved, as the goal is Love, a hungry love never sated - Oh, to kiss the beloved with the same kiss the beloved kisses me, and in that kiss live an eternity - our hearts know this, Love attracts Love, the secret of the kiss -- and the law of attraction is as above, so in you, as you see Beauty, so it is in you, too -- all Lovers invent the Beloved and then the Music, the Poem, the Story is always about that -- the Lover makes the music, the Poem the Story as a texture of that ancient ache, a reality play which changes in innumerable revisions and realizations forever voyaging with the heart as compass - always going, never arrived, a visceReal Love uncontrived ...

I'd like it to be more clear, singing a Siren-Song reverberating there, alluring with a languid laissez-faire, calling you with a back-bone chill, a frisson thrill, where you lose your will and the last thing to go, ya' know, is the soul, which gives the pearl it's extra gleamy-glow

-- romantic-mysticism is like that at first, where the image becomes cursed by becoming numinous 'n fluid, the thirst being the thing after-all, after the fall -- that the goal of longing swells, that ancient-ache that tells us to yearn toward the goal, of love, ya know, is the place we lament in sears of tears that we're sent by the particles dream to coalesce as a Sun again ... while you're post-modern humanism stays the course, in images made of sense, toward lips so sweet to kiss, the meaning of all of this --

nevertheless, when looking outside-in beyond the fatal-skin we're in, it's enough to just begin to reach without an end - the song-o-longing remains the same, In infinite darkness an ancient ache cried out in a million quivering lights as if the night wept stars --

we write and read Poetry to heal the wounds of our reasons ...