promises grow, my love

most fantastic romances!
tell me where it is you hide—
I had only slipped from slumber
so slight that then I found abound
such listlessness in the face of sound—
were I warrior of this wordy world,
fought for under a bloodied flag
and loved by the weakened,
I’d burn all these books
and I would cherish anyone
who could still be found reading,
in silence, to his heart aloud, proud
of the endlessness, bright in its own right.
for I heard a king say once to me, softly,
nearly to drown out all the whispers,
and with a strange new beauty
that there are no new loves
only multitudes of duly duties
made to proliferate among young
minds who rare remember how to start—
dead art, he deemed, queenly seeming,
as the magic show progressed about—
plethoras of ideas strewn, dancing,
magnificent in form, withholding
their substance, like paintings
that cannot disconnect the painter
from the painted and leave you alone
left to fend for yourself in the wildernesses
of thought and feeling and meaning, wide in embrace.
I thought I saw you once today in my mind,
truer to me than we both could ever find,
until tomorrow that is when new days,
better bright, better urge on better ways.

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