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In esse

In youth, my words were fair and bright,
though I had not the life to know
how darkness gives its way to light
and life to death, and warmth to woe,
and with this wisdom now I fight
to find at all reason, although
reason reacts with fatal bite
and oft I wish for deadly blow.
Instead I seek a lover's curse,
a doomed affair, a soldier's end
though I am left with only verse,
and far above my make I spend
to revel in excess, or worse:
to lose my days playing pretend
as in routine, I still coerce
my tale into what I have penned.
I do not grasp soul or belief,
nor the sound of my beating heart
but I am told that in love's grief
one hears its blood burning apart,
or wilting, as is our motif
to imitate near every art
and that, to my deepest relief,
it is impossible to chart.
Thrown between each ebb and flow, yet
stingy, stubborn, and all too wild;
drowning in dirges, or deep-set
guilt, yet unbothered as a child;
in lulls conscious of each regret,
in frenzy anything but mild;
lively, witty, Venus' vignette—
whilst caged in sorry self-exile.
To love and hate one's lawless flair,
to wish for the death of Jeanne d'Arc—
a noble or shameful affair?
I shan't deny what gives me spark:
crying out with fated despair,
from Hades' grasp do I embark
and with a playful smile swear:
Orpheus rises with his dark.

Aug. 08, 2025