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01/07/09 - (2)
The Romantic
So long, long ago, I realized, synesthetically, that I was a Romantic, A poet-lover addicted to candlelight and moonlight, Shadows, silhouettes, and heightened starlighted climaxes Unfolding below coruscating skies,
An artist with a penchant, gift, passionate predilection For dramatizing the common, ordinary, quotidian, mundane, Hyperbolizing their possibilities for epiphany, Hoping to focus my ambitious lyrical skills, on a solitary task: Disclosing the vast cosmos within my soul.
And to that noble end, I spent my lucubratory nights — Thousands and thousands of solitudinous hours — Investigating the esoteric nuances and ambiguities of language, The sensibilities innate to faded civilizations, Trying to locate my place in the history of the universe,
By composing poems to imaginary Beatrices and Dulcineas, Believing I was fated, unequivocally, ceremoniously, To thread the stars, with words of silvery fleece, Into one coherent, integral soul-mirror, That might reflect my destiny, in the eyes of Parises, Héloïses,
Allow me to speculate on my ultimate disposition In a world where time and eternity converse with each other, As they arise from sensuous dialogues of love songs So earthly, so ethereal, no poet could conceivably recreate The ecstasy inherent in dreams coupling with reality. But all of that happened so long, long ago, I can hardly remember that Romantic who roamed my bones. These nights of my excavations into those ancient stirrings, Lucubration is a sad exercise in recharting defunct stars, A calamity of transcendent planets dying of entropy.
01/07/09 - (2)
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