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By Rhetoric Date: 2001 Nov 04 Comment on this Work [[2001.11.04.23.01.1890]] |
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I do not know, nor could I predict, how I would feel at the knowledge of her death; how this woman died, the sad and lonely fall that did break her neck. Can one prepare for sadness and forlorn at the details of a descent, from atop mahogany stair? This Angel of words, Creator of verse, left in a tragic whirl - just as she began. The violence of her life, and the turmoil she did endure is a memorial all unto itself. I shall not speak, not could I attempt requiem, of a moment forever impressed upon my heart by anyone more a stranger than she. How queer a response from any person in their solid mind - a weep for each page of sorrow? I am impassioned to say that now is just that case. Dusting off my thoughts, after entwining into another's, is no effortless task. I read, therefore, I know. I feel, therefore, I react. Were it any more bizarre, I could not dictate my remorse. It is as if I love her, and so, I too lost her heart. It is as though she were an extension of me ( I am her ), loving, learning and writing all those beautiful words; the words with which she destroys me ( how deeply she does feel ). My only reservation in citation of this affair lies in the delivery of my speech; how can I manage to speak truly of a love I never did feel with flesh and heat? Would the sting be less real if she were less real to me? Such thoughts will haunt my mind for days. Having read her words, knowing their full potency, has doomed my heart to days of bittersweet lament. "Is it better to have loved and lost, than never loved at all?" I feel certain that I can declare that to know love ( even if only on paper and ink ) and lose with pain, is more rewarding than to fear the faint kiss of the Angel at all. |