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words

It’s a nice feeling, it’s a strange feeling.  Is it love so far? 

Or is it just Shakespearian imagery blown to agonistic proportions?

My reality or conception of it has been challenged by his wit,

But its effect did not remain in the realm of the mind, rebelliously

Leaping from the stable state to compromise that blurred dividing line

Between fate and decision.  Come to think of it, fate is elusive to one

Who cannot decide.  I have become forgiving with you, surprisingly.

I will never admit to anyone being more endowed than me, and

I customarily meet challenges with a closed fist.  More than fate,

More than hate, I began to think about love and what they entail. 

I have never heard such a disturbing, yet exhilarating thing from myself.

If men could create with words, you sure spoke them to renewed

existence in my heart: walking under canopy trees, searching the 

stars in your eyes, and then, a cataclysmic big-bang when the heart

becomes aware, though I’ve ignored them before, follows.  Ah, smitten

were the sentinel words I’ve crafted for these times, those friends rarely

strived against the wishes of the gushing wellspring of life or death,

that curious piece of beating flesh wrapped with wires that takes little ideas

to the littlest parts. Through sophisticated passageways, conduits, pipes,

they must go somewhere to rest: a page, a song, a dance, upon me. From

experience they get in the way half the time, the other, they hold sway.

Your words grew hands to touch me, that’s what.  Your words are moving

to harass my sanity, a surprising thing, for I demean myself only for

my pleasure and sake. The need does not arise to unwrap you for you are

fancy enough to produce words for this effort.  I have not decided, though —

fate seems to follow a course unhindered thereby letting vigilance sleep

the night, for as the buses have left to reach the littlest parts, in secret,

they seem to find no need to know their way back for they have come to find

rest in me.  They have found home in the dampness of that muscle,

embraced by the warmth of yearning that says I am ready to love again. 

Then again, these are mere words I have rephrased from the past today. 

Words are too fickle to live by, I say.

ruth mostrales

january 2009

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