Ecstasy of union is in separation,
depth of longing is born from length of desire,
most do not know that sun and roses spring from
winter's tedious garden. Romance is sown
in the soil of frustration. Troubadours
and modern lovers languish in self imposed bliss,
sensual postponement grooms two passionate seekers,
delaying carnal disappointment.
Miserable separation, so deliciously
keeps the illusion alive. Enforced distance
is wisdom, locking the gems of immanence
in the temple of transcendence.
Enjoy the gradual disinterment,
unearthing your lover through ritual imagination
and a thousand sacrifices, one kiss.
Love and death always work together,
a knife in one hand a tourniquet in the other.
Healing is in wounds, and for slow lovers
there is mutual blindness to inevitable discontent;
causing them to pretend that it is possible to be
always arriving while praying
that the journey never ends.
end/michael
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