This Hope that is Love

How I wish for my words that they still might dazzle a bit of the long lost lore upon the hearts and minds of those who would still find it in their hearts to hear words which have life in them. While my mind is a baseless and groundless series of windblown conglomerations of sentiments, whether rung with fire or love, it is nonetheless, an articulate mass of perpetual frothing words of thoughts and ideas, stated in elegance or humor, or in all biting sarcasm swooping mercilessly down upon the intended ear. It is to my wishing and knowing, my want and betterment of love, to my sorrowful wants and joyful achievements of my seemingly endless wishes and hopes for life, in all the joys and sorrows of the perpetual blowing's of the very spirit in the wind, bringing it all to not. For all the joys and sorrows, all the wants of life, for all the living and all the life that life itself wishes for in my longing heart.

Oh, but how the heart doth rejuvenate and regenerate, replenish and renew itself. How even in genius, given in mediocrities and conformity's, how quickly does it not revile, cease to contempt itself in vile chastisements, longing for the swords anguished mercy, crying in its ceaseless yearnings, in all its longing of consternation's and disparagement. How quickly doth yet, even yet, the heart doth feel for the smile and the laugh. How the friendly words of the flirtatious merriment of close hearts and given smiles, of the joys of emotions, relating with the frothing of two hearts engaged in the closeness of the compelling allure of the mutual connections of intellect and emotion and all the longing contemplations of the closeness of an intimate companion. How deeply doth the heart feel in its fullness of love.

How well do I know the longings of my heart? For even as the grass whithers and the flowers fade, how still in my heart dwells the passions of its own living force. How once alive in its glory, long ago in its fullness, alive without constraint. Yes now, even in caged contempt, driven onward in endless frivolities of ceaseless striving of the greed and gain of men, in this world of such trouble, lurking still, in its own, what is its own, still now and always, still yet, but in the hearts own solitude. Yet, even in its fullness or its nothingness, even so in its own madness's, it is still but yet its seeking my own heart which to fill with love. How perpetual the hope which is in my heart of the want of the life and of the love which still yet lives but yet made only of hope. For what is hope which is only hope. It is but of the sure sorrow of how otherwise of its hopeful longings. Still, how I hate hope; to carry me with the wind as such this far and wide in all lacking of the still hoping. With all I had hoped for and had died this death of longing, in all my vain hopes of which I am still seeking and still yet trying to find with still all my continuing vanity, still yet made of the horror of this never ending undying and perpetual hope. How my hope has condemned me to a life but of hope. Yet still I say hope. Hope, yet once again.