Enough with Shooting Stars Already!

"Whatever dies, was not mixed equally."
--John Donne

Let foolish love, itself to immolate,
Trail fiery clouds below more stalwart hearts.
Unfit to stand, too volatile to wait,
It kindles blazes from discordant parts.
Celestial matter sundered from its source,
It clashes with telluric atmospheres.
Intent to run a self-consuming course,
The torrid sigh descends—and disappears.
The love that spans the sky illumines more
Than silly fancy with its streaking flares,
So let us make no specious metaphor
By which to justify inane affairs:
The foreign lamps we deem to be less bright
In truth burn brighter—but with distant light!

A Pauper's Plea

Make perfect tally of the debt I owe
for every kiss you rendered me,
and I will pay with interest.

What currency can so indemnify
love’s debtor for the pains accrued
except a kind repayment?

What's now the going price for ardent smiles?
I fear I trade in deficit,
so let me make requital.

In truth, I know the stumbling rites of love
cannot be quantified or priced,
though they may seem a trifle.

But we have fallen out of pure exchange,
and so, I pay—at least in part—
with hours spent on verses.

Make no allowance for this debt I bear;
I'll stay however long I may
within your debtor’s prison.

The Reader

I suppose I am my own worst demon
Controlling my every thought and perception
I mold my reality like a ball of clay
Supple and malleable; it does what I want
I suppose some could say I control nothing
But I do control my perception of control
If I believe I do, I do
And that's really good enough
I think I can feel more than some people
But at the same time I think many see me callous
I am constantly watching
I observe the world
I live within my own snow globe
And shake it up from time to time
I can allow myself distractions
Or I can be closed off to just one
I can sit by myself, but I'm never alone
I constantly think of someone else
It just seems impossible to think of me and only me
Why should I be so important to myself?
If I serve no one in serving myself it is futile
But I suppose the fact is that I do
When I think of me, I think of you
It's strange how some people affect me
Not bad, but peculiar
Some are fat, stout, tall, lank, lean, or absolutely delicious
I am led to consumption of some types more than others
I feed on the lively ones
Their energy is contagious
But it does not infect me, for I have it already
It recharges a battery already working
Skin tones, eye color, hair, curves, faces
Patterns behind the eyes
Mannerisms and inflection
There is little that escapes me
We are all so transparent
It is impossible to avoid inspection
Just give it time
Your beauty is exquisite
You intrigue me fully
There are so many facets unexplored
So many shelves and tombs that you don't even know
You have so many blank pages
So many full pages
You cram some things between the lines and in the margins
And other things go ignored
But on the whole you are delectable
Not in any way of impropriety
But you create a fascination
A growing fascination
And I think by exploring you I will find myself
A peace that I have not felt yet
A calm that I want
It will come
As I am an open book or books
Let us read