The pointless crusade leads me here
A labour of love that has no meaning
or anything resembling an ending
fit to warm a snowy evening, or simply
a total eclipse of the heart. It's easy
to make a mess of my pride
easier to turn back and let it slide
but I'm left behind, uncomprehending.
the matrix of complexity
plagues me now. senseless declarations
of being in love. is it you or merely
an idea of you in my brutal fixation,
pointless quest for perfection? flawlessness
is abstract, an empty vacuum,
clinical detachment, useless
in our solid fallible world. is it you
or is it an idea of you conceived
in a pubescent, dormant mind?
needless definitions, assertions,
weightless value of my numbing
cynicism. loveless subversion
of all things sacrosanct. loveless subversion
of all things dear. one more time,
and I'm the victim, for behind
your back you unknowingly
wield the sword, cutting me into pieces
merely by the words that you write.
I have lost the fight. it should
never have begun. is it you, truly
you, or is it an idea of you
in my mind, made up, a
figment of my imagination?
how does one tell the difference?
August 2, 2004