III.
When I cannot sleep, for visions of you,
Meander like movies in my mind’s eye,
Admixing the truest with the untrue,
The wounded and flightless with that which can fly,
I do not intenerate these thoughts chaotic,
But reverence the vigour of their violence,
The interplay of feelings, both fair and despotic,
With spells of rage, and storms of silence,
I’d rather be cursed with love-sickened madness,
Then blessed with anaesthetic tranquillity,
The former can foster the goodness of genius,
The latter – only seductive senility!
Love is a blessing that drives us insane –
A gift of compassion – a palace of pain.
IV.
And in that palace of pain, I have long been tenant,
Scrubbings the floors, and painting the walls,
With my very own blood as sanguine penance,
For any pains I have previously caused,
For, in love, I have been guilty as any,
Of the vagaries and vacillations of intent,
My merits few – my mistakes – many,
Though my crimes of the heart were often well-meant,
Still, I would rather reside in this palace of laments,
Than in the narrow alley of self-obsession,
Love highlights our mistakes, and calls out, “repent!”
Breaking the bonds of our self-definition,
Enlightening our hearts – infinite – eternal –
Wedding the celestial with the infernal.
V.
I do often wish you’d not be so cruel,
But throw more cuts of compassion my way,
Not just glut me on grief and gruel –
The crumbs and crusts of your lover’s buffet,
Won’t you allow me to enter the gates of your heart;
To lay on the bed made for us there –
Instead of being kept cold in your cold courtyard,
Deserted by Hope, and racked by Despair?
But, Hope has driven me insistently on,
Refusing me refuge or peaceful surrender,
An eternal passion that will not be gone,
Whether jubilant June or darkest December,
And as love like this never abates –
I’ll maintain my vigil without your wavering gates
A Poet's Life 