Fire or Bloom

And thus, like you and I, he whose eye for beauty has gone blindwhose wings of perception have gone stiffnot blessed with imaginationwhose eye for beauty has gone dimavers the sky is darkness, not bloom.The wretched one.

* * *

The night, the stars, like springengulfing us with red daisiesthe sky wearing a quiltornamented, shimmeringbright, bejewelled and glowinglording over harvest and the garden of dawngarnished with varieties of daisiessuffused with the scent of the new year's cropall being oh! my bloomthe moon out of its lid, its ornate budbursting out of its shell, oozing its fruity charmhaving emerged like a virgin roseebullient luminous orb. . .Unfurled youthful blossomwhy then does he whose lens has hardenedhis imagination tautwhose eye for beauty has gone blindand his passion witheredsay no, it is not bloomno, it is not fire?The wretched one. . . The sky is darkness, not fire, he deniedeven as the furnace was ablaze in his eyes.The stars like a torchlike golden flamesfluttering edge to edgethe bonfire roaringglowing, smolderingwhen clouds are aflame like a blazelightning coming down like wildfirehaving fired a shooting starlit fire in the horizons. . .He, like you and I, whose eye for beauty has gone dimavers the sky is darkness, not fire.The wretched one.

* * *

Leave it alone, we won't discuss.You and I will not converse.We are not blessed with conversationjust mum, mum. . . mum.Whether we become bloom or fireensnared by the curse of desirethe calamity sparked by infatuationas we labor through our days. . .we will not become fire, nor bloomchoking over hiccupsour youth has been squandered, as we wallowed in tears. . .We have feared, yes, love we have feared.We have muffled the soul's utterancethe ache of our lifelet, our labored conception'svoicethat which youth had conferred upon usour devine anointmentour baptism by firewhich the God of love, in his wisdom, bestowed upon us.We've feared, yes we've truly fearedWe've been the breath of passion denied.

* * *

Neither separating nor keeping us togetherbathing us in steamy sweatlimiting us to eye contactkeeping us neither near nor far apartputting a fence of gossip around ussplitting us over hearsaywithout our becoming neither fire nor bloomconfined to separate plateaus. . .You and I will not converseeven if it pains us we won't discussjust hush, zip, mum.Enough, spare me your memorysuffer me your sickening dreams. . .As your eye wished death upon mine, were it to heed hints of rebuketo die upon being told to dieto stay when told to go stayto listen to hearsayand abided when faultedAmen, begone all of it.Begone the songs of birdsbegone, we won't watch the moona mere pipe dreamidle illusive fortuneit won't be gone, were it to, be gone when told toit won't be dead, were it to, be dead when told to. . .Wouldn't that have meant peace?Do then, make peace with me over your painshield me from your distress.Pardon me for your ache.If you were to spare me, spare me, spare me your memory. . .

* * *

Why then is your voice so distant?Why, your utterance become so weak?. . .The glow in your eye deflected, as though pregnant with tears wavering over cryingforming a coat of pain and sufferingthrobbing with passionwhy has it remained in agony?. . .How I wish I could wipe your tearscaress your sweatcome near your eye's radiance, its flamefeel the warmth of its rays. . .Though I may not reach you, approach you, evoking you in thoughtreaching up over your breathwere I to reach you, caress you, stretching my soul's tentaclessniffing in pain your illusive trace, your scentprostrate before the altar of your footstepsthe dirt I...