“Spring”

To profess love – of a velvet glove, a tender dove,

pining to be a part of – expectation must be never.

Some souls’ spring: a time for blooming.

Some souls’ spring: a time for glooming.

 

Cracks in the blinds like the lattice of my heart.

The slightest shred of sunrise bleeds through.

Like the love that cannot be contained.  

Unrequited.

 

I feel not a need for a courtship with thee – we’ve to this day courted for months in my dreams.

We’ve to this time walked moonlit bays a thousand times in my heart.

We’ve explored one another’s passions and pitfalls without an actual touch.

To be in love may be to carry thee wherever I go.

A home in my heart.

No matter the distance or time elapsed, there you reside.

Itching, nagging, reminding me that you refuse to leave.

Stealing my heart like a thief under the cover of night.

 

So many so wonderful, so pretty, so many millions.

But a unique light in a dull crowd of pale-faced civilians.

The truest thing of you – the inexplicable,

mysterious part of you, lies beyond reason.

You are beautiful (but there are many).

You are kind (but there are many).

You are intelligent, funny and personable (but there are many).

Yet in each man’s heart, only one woman has something that none of those others do:

one woman will pillage your sanity, rob you of your sleep.

One woman will tie your stomach in knots, make it theirs to keep.

One woman will lure a tear from your eye with ease

and only one woman is your benignly destructive disease.

These iridescent emotions – my love from lamb to lion in a matter of seconds.

You are the one that ruins my sleep and brings out a feral cry.

A primal scream I channel into poetry of lost truths and light.

Not having you makes me want to claw at God’s hem, demand a release.

Love isn’t just happiness – it’s an appetite, a weapon, a force of creativity and destruction.

You make me want to weep with joy and you make me want to scream with frustration.

I hate how much I love you.

My body may sleep, but my soul will always be

a caged animal, my existence hungry and vulnerable.

You’re better than all the rest.

I don’t know why.

I never will.

 

You live in my heart no matter where I go or what I do.

(I love that you’re here to stay)

Sometimes people come in your life and don’t just touch,

but leave footprints in your heart.

(I wish you would just go away)

When we truly have traversed peoples’ souls like romantic wayfarers,

swam through their being like fish up glistening channels,

love declares its mark, testifies its truest confession.  

Love’s signature, its eloquent impression.

 

From winter we’re born with a new hope,

so much hope, so much born from seasonal trope.

Then sings a solstice – merely longer days.

A spring is flowing, a spring is life,

the spring cuts deep, the spring a knife.

Then sings a solstice – little else obeys.

Turgid hearts remark in brushstrokes so dark,

so many so elegant, so many so stark.

We grow and perish in those shadows of gloom,

we celebrate and diminish in the light of fresh bloom.

Our outspoken joys and sorrows echo life;

our songs sing our peace, poems illustrate our strife.

 

We are what we are, regardless of external force;

the season – to never be relevant;

the reason – to always be eloquent.

Some souls’ spring: a time for blooming.

Some souls’ spring: a time for glooming.

 

Tony Blau Veldt, completed 02/21/2016

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