|
By Ali Date: 2008 Jan 30 Comment on this Work [[2008.01.30.15.06.22309]] |
|
You allow it, and the details are denied, protesting existence while representing it-- a consequence of love and desire, hammered out of tune, sculpted into the softly bending metal of your flinching steel. These details, heart-proof, or proof of the heart, emerge as suicidal syllables stalling for time, following some categorical imperative-- striving to repress the legitimacy of love, of the small way a heart beats faster, or the depth at which truth can be found in letters-- you only need look, really. The details are etched in irises, seared into fingertips: they were found and felt. Now, they are tossed out, excommunicated, branded as heresy because they do not fit, easy, into the kingdom you imagine for yourself-- but when a pawn masquerades as king, wearing the robes will only sully his heart, and he will find himself tempted, perhaps subtly falling out of favor with his own reflection, no longer master of himself, unable to withstand the distance, yet unable to relent. |