Ever the dim melancholy cry,
Ever the moon pursues the sun,
Crepuscule, aurora, but glimpse
Each other, as but one light,
Ascends to the apex of the sky.
Pining, like the Dane to his Regine,
Knowing the searing heat of love,
Knowing the dark angels within,
This longing, ever lost in longing,
Unable to leap the dark ravine.
In setting free the broken sparrow,
Authenticity carried such a weight,
Lives broken, and lives reformed,
And bounded mind in leap of faith,
Lover lilts, pierced by his own arrow.
Sometimes the road less traveled,
Is a sadness, is a sorrow of solitude.
Not every love though forged in vow,
Grows old and deep in lasting bonds.
So Kierkegaard whose very self unraveled.
Yet was found in the arms,
That caught his perilous leap,
Catching each perilous leap,
Along life's way.
2 comments:
Both as a something of a scientist and something of an existentialist...I love it!
Thanks...and as a something of a poet yourself, your encouragement is appreciated.
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