pathetic.

it seems to me that i’ll be listlessly waiting quite awhile
for someone whose heart matches mine and mind has equal guile,
tactfully returning my witticisms easily
and chasing after every conjecture the sun could make and then…

well, guess we’ll see.
hopefully, she’ll marry me.
accept a gem who’s been under pressure
as sand beneath the sea,
coalesced instead of crumbling under a weight unseen;

i contemplate in metaphor, complexify analogy,
for no apologies from those who inconvenience me.
except, maybe, myself it seems; from me i might expect the most.
try to be as perfect as even the holiest of ghosts.
within remains a catholic who argues with an old rabbi,
waxing philosophic with the alchemist-king inside my mind.
it feels divine, this strangest trine.
blissful as an evening spent on oceanside.

for more on those, i merely ought to look within your eyes,
but doing so would cataclyse my soul and send me to the skies
below which we reside with glee for a smaller eternity
than that which our own soul will know,
than that for which our sun will glow,
for less a time than we shall see,
for less a time than Earth shall be —
and yet we find vast swaths of mirth
despite the oath sworn us since birth,
a promise which to some seems cold
and instigates in others bold
urge and will that’ll wax and wane
and put us all through so much pain —

but such is life, and life will be;
living’s a verb; and being free.
they must be done, or else they’ll cease,
leaving you sans vie, deceased.