Absolute.

She is some fable,
with tulle dress and empress
resolve and regaling
redressing the grieved.
Her empty promise
to kiss me with answers:
she, one sweet legend,
I craved to believe.

Passing her entrance,
or so told by patrons
of Belief and Unquestioned
deference and cool faith--
I could not find her:
I needed her answer,
but long in doubt,
knowing no way to behave.

No absolute, purpose-put
turn of existence,
no rock-solid way I was
bent to conceive,
the shock of the life-making
sear of decisions
that rework themselves
in a dangerous tease.

Life piques our questions
toward heart-bending factions
that leave fears sent
crashing down over the edge.
She is no net,
no simple reaction;
too many trace passion
as dark or pretend.

Goodbye to you, Perfect:
in blurred lines and feeling,
I learn in the burning
and chase down my death.
Life grips its beauty
with painful confliction:
the peace in the action
of bleeding and breath.

June 10, 2010