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Headlong


I wouldn’t stop even if I could. I stop now and there’ll be hell to pay.

She started whispering to me her scream as she hoped the answer would be seen. Who am I? Where did I go? Am I really in heaven disguised as hell? It is sweetest when everyone comes to the dance.

~

Love is not to be divided as in shares, it is to run headlong into each and everything upon her. She is heavenly, mother, grandmother and great grandmother.

~

And so to be them in my song, the whole of life undulates with all things, the clip of a rapid-fire fiddle to the cello’s measured breathing, sorrow to sudden delight of lungs unaccustomed to such pleasures.

Oh, violin! Won’t you weep more for joy? Weep more for desires, greed, and laughter, leaving you out in the cold to laugh last?

~

Still a child inside to be forgiven, so play your chords to the ferryman, cry your eyes in her embrace evermore, forgive.

Still, a child, quick, begin your tap, tap, tap, tapping and forget not to weep and weep and weep to fill the cavern. Rise with the swiftness of fury and all other foul uses of man. (Wrath and vengeance are not love's.) Oh cry me a sea of tears for the death of love and the final memory of this, humankind.

Let’s not say goodbyes, they’re too painful to do forever, again and again and again.

On her breast I suckle at love. Love her, she has my face, the countenance is mine and thee and those. This cast of iron and steel and rock and water and animal slowly marching toward irrelevance, since the previous ill-use has yet to be written, is love.

Storytellers come out and dance your affections of love. Shout down from the moon-top, never let her down again, lest we be brought to our knees and made to utter the nothing we know.

One, two, three, weep…


© 2011 by mark prime

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