do those who value the man of his mind

do those who value the man of his mind
not love the physic—the music of him—
are the beautiful not able to see
another for it, who and what they are—
value—what will you seek and they have,
what does it mean to have something to do—
and what does it mean to have nothing but—
to write why the sky hers or it burns,
fire—rage of no regret—a beacon
setting steady the heady progression,
the fruitful momentum, made memory,
melody, sung from the soul, come alive:

at one, one has fun, the heart and the mind;
but at two, there’s fuel, to fly from on high—

that is to say, one has never left it;
his station, his fortification from—
whatever be beneath him in thought,
and so it goes, that idiom, above—
to have the need to say what may not be
with another and to have him at heart,
to know not to understand or withstand,
or stand under—but to hope to rival:
to look to see the both sides of it all,
still to choose just when and where you will go:
where-ever you know you already know;
time isn’t a factor in heaven either—

what of it then, simple, petty love—
when it is brought to you not from up above,

rather, by your side, or lower than you,
you might think of it, just admiration,
justified by might, fire, fight and true,
for gone are the men of innovation,
when lost are the lot of good creation—
to hell with the form and the formations,
there is in honesty the path you paveth—
save the semblances romance saveth,
therein begins series of damnations
to all that talks a way and takes away
from what you believe in is greatest,
the source of all you meet and so chasest—

within motions there are these notions then:
up then down, once, or down then up, again—