By Whinza Kingslee Ndoro Jun 24, 2007, 10:33 GMT
The False Lords Of Romantic Love
I, too, am guilty of the ancient, air-borne crimeThat for spring of woman usurping womanPerforating senses, she too winters over time.
Ah! it behooves, how men like to believeThe more attractive this genome of woman is,The more dedicated will be her love.
Disillusioned, thus I lose a little more worldEvery minstrel show I muster (mastering not)This blue-bloodiness to devoted love devoted:
Taught kiss the myopic yeses, non-void the low-blows,Plead, provide, perform, please—yes, I lose lessFrankness of mythic self, as this same self goes.
And anxious at the axis of play, I covet a last reprieveGreater, to sufficiently supplant a nobler sense—O why we commiserate those false lords of romantic love?
Some Notions of Humanity
We enclose in the end of us, a wilderness.At the bottom—A wounding and bloodful sea.
Between these two cardinal points, we divide,We love and evolve matching witsBlown by incessant airs of nirvanas there.
Heaven, herself, is but a ready-made featherKnocking at the world’s stones:This boulder we shun, but is an apt home.
As for dreams dear and dreaming, darling,It’s when in the being of some happy stoneBubbles imagination:
Flicker in wings, O flicker in wings,Under your universal law— Seawater softens objects it caresses.
Whinza Kingslee Ndoro
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