My Construct of Love

What is love? Questions to wake to every morning,
Just as I lift, thinner than air out of the cobwebs of sleep.
With clearer eyes, and clearer light, the answer is still unclear:
And the question is now an ornament, hanging onto my train of thought.

Love is what I have constructed of it; by my own design,
It is fickle and fleeting, deep and dark, harrowing and heavy,
Yet it is free, as light as dust it settles on me sparkling in the daylight.
That is when you appear and it is no longer a vision but fine tuned reality.

Our construct of love as I have known it is amusing to you,
I see the twinkle in your blue-grey eyes when I sing it and you smile,
I turn my back to your face on purpose, part of design, meant to engage
In a manner suited to engagement, knowing full well the roles we are to play.

As if I were some crystal ornate, clear to you, transparent,
You spin me around on my axis, and I will spin and spin to eternity,
So you might catch glimpses of the reflections of me I will throw at you,
Little flashes of light, meant to be random, diverse and begging the same question:

What is love? I will scream at you, you will not know it,
Soon you shall tire of the pettiness of this charade, constructed or not,
It is beyond the limits of the games you've agreed to play, no longer amusing;
The sun sets and takes with it all lustre: a hollow stone spinning sounds to the dark.

You cannot invest neither affectation nor affection here,
While content with the complacency this architecture had offered you,
The same ideas were meant to collapse into themselves, satiety its undoing,
This pre-determined dissolution is slow and paralysing to my soul, yet unanaesthetic.

Eventually you will exit, and leave behind more questions.
I will construct more answers, reprimand logic when it does not comply.
Eventually these thoughts will dye themselves in other colours, blending you in;
Your pigments have added substance to the question of what is love, but created another:

What is not?

The Fall of Body(the Fall of Art)

They say a pen to prose, and a heart to poetry,

But then why beget consciousness from consciousness, I ask

Uncertain. I am sure though that were the coroner to plunge his arm

Deep into the viscous fluid of my thoughts, he would grope about at nothing,

As one does in dark, deep waters, where the light does not reach,

And molecule on molecule begets an ocean, alone in its own right.

It is in this semblance of thought that I exist,

Like many others. I reach into my gullet and pull out of me my guts,

Spew blood on a canvas, and call it ‘art’. Then I hang it out my window,

And call to passers-by to ignore it, consider it part of the façade that makes,

This building worth calling my home. Yet I will peer down through

The slit in the curtains to see if any man will stop to critique my misgivings.

The pluripotency of this self-analysis is all,

That I have to offer meagrely to this world. As the icons of mad girls,

Stare down at me and whisper in forlorn amnesty, that I too shall fall

And the streets will watch me fall, applaud as I hit the ground smashed into pieces,

Then proceed to sift through my remains holding up fragments to light,

In an attempt to colour their psychoses in a shade more appealing to wear.

What of my life then, do I create or cease?

Do I create silently but cease in a loud flourish only to hold their stares briefly?

Or do I do just the opposite and weave webs of words around my own enigmas,

And throw the papers onto the avenue, so a few pedestrians can disregard with certainty,

These pamphlets attempting to be ‘art’? What then if I do not drop to the ground,

My ‘art’ or my body, or that if falling is a given, neither makes a noticeable sound?

If these are the necrotic mutations of left-over thought, I will let them be.

They serve their purpose, beget consciousness from consciousness.

And in such goal I find no discrepancy,

Between the fall of my body or my ‘art’.