We have each traded ourselves in
for the other.
Seeming to fulfill the dense plot of desire
that we continually harvest,
the perennial property of our existence.
Do not love me, for you do.
Disengage the affording branch
from my corridor
and plug it into your own.
Reintroduce your ambition to its origin.
Here it may meekly dip only one trait in
(but permit practice sessions).
You are being beckoned now.
Your old self of reality
screams through me.
Breathe yourself in;
I know that you see me
and think that you love me.
In fact, you do. But the love for your soul
must thrive in harmony,
strengthening each individual love.
We are one.
And previously, as two,
we found ourselves, alone and connected.
Brief brushes often maybe, at times,
even now; elemental brilliance is still possible.
Merely, understandably, in hiding.
Don’t you think,
that sometimes, we should all just live
from within the masquerade?
Like it is a masquerade.
(For it is.)
Here, we star in our own plays
allowing ourselves to be playwright
by entitlement and luscious capability.
Ultimately culpability, I know!
Will you join me in the forest of decadence?
Wear your costume of true self.
Not the daily duds of conformity
that we have become so accustomed to,
but those that exude
the exuberance which draws.
This game is not for them; it’s ours.
Shear your landscape
into the most outrageous design imaginable.
Curse the censor;
fold him up into his can.
I cannot fall in love with you anymore
as I repeat every three beats of my heart.
And yet, I will.
Regardless, bubbles do brew and tumble
voluptuously, so far from our union.
Encouraging eruption, minus becoming,
Just take the swell of the storm
into your body
and simply allow yourself to become it.
Feel that you will lose yourself;
and there, sitting divine and naked,
you will find yourself.
And meet the one that I love.