Second-guess

Can you paint me a picture, from the many colors of tint, or an illustration of comfort, from the most genuine print? The emblazon highlights our promoted emotions, as affection erupts from the canvas' motions. The moment this image is held by the mind's eye, the prejudice past manipulates truth's lines. You can't frame the art of life with youth's dreams, let memories convey felicity within the seams. Can you bare me feathers, from the blossoms of sunny fields, or flaps to drift the foretelling, through the winds of purity? All that flies with that of reality, beats through my wings, flight made of the finest ingredients, that only Nature sings. This soaring of independence, presents you with today, mistrust in the gust that only virtue portrays. Can you build me a mountain, from the water of the seas, or a tower to the future, from the tides of reality? This reliable sequel of fundamentals, brings ease, from which the foundation, exaggerates security. We are slaves to thoughts of construction, without this safety, we cannot function. Present thoughts are the materials borrowed, to build our passageway into tomorrow. We blueprint the journey with fraudulent fantasy, and magnify shelter in our reality of feeling. The belief in love is nearly all that is treasured, a desperate measure without further endeavor. Insecurity of self causes doubt of existence, we lie to dear brother fidelity's subsistence. We deceive him in our pathetic relief, we destroy him with mirrored disbelief. You once compromised ambition in solid verity, but shattering the glassy heart uncovers ingenuity. Your melodrama harbored confidence and prosperity, but truth slams you back to concrete reality. I am not a result, for I am a subliminal build. I am not the mere speculation, by which your heart is filled. I am not a stepping stone, in the pursuit of integrity, so please, don't you fucking lie to me. A second-guess, once proposed for such effusive greed, that hauled a gerund, upon which purpose could feed. Your apologies are spoken, to mend the broken heart, but the puzzle no longer fits after it has fallen apart. My hopes and dreams were grimly raped, unfolded for a mere emotional escape. Forget remnants of lust, the self-seeking fabrication, sympathetic to only that of the first temptation. Love isn't a tower, it can't be built. Love isn't a picture, it can't be framed. Love isn't the hype, that a fight brings, for it is the guts, behind the swing. (c) Joe Ulisses Written January 1st, 2002 © on Feb 05 2002 02:37 PM PST   10 • 0 • 8