Here, My Alter

Here, My Alter


Some unnamable grace and invisible means of support moves me without steps as it floats me my progress on. I would love it alone and be more than just satisfied were its visit more frequent, would it be it were oft more present.  Or embodied, had it an avatar already to my residence come to stay a while long. Yet, it has not and may never will.  The end of my own time only may serve to tell of the outcome.  Therefore I might wait for answers for some years only to be told—“No. You can not be justly rewarded for all the harsh ills you have so faithfully endured.

         And so there is you.

Lady-love-yonder by willow bows, blessed-to-be-the-divinely-accompanied:  there, a scene that so sings with delightful plea that I would bear to hear its void, a voice, cry out loud its mournful music melody, lady love, which many hours with less than gentle work have framed, have forged, through the use of the one unfairly acted upon, he who blessed in being made more fair may thereafter excel and speak of that lady love yonder by willow bows, and they blessed to be the divinely coupled.

But I will not degrade myself, begging of you for more than you are worth.  So with your appraisal being thus set, from me you should hear of this that I envision only ten times; ten times ten thousand or that much more in fold or more, or more, or more but till every nuance of truth be heard, within your thoughts absorbed. For ten thousand times more than even that total sum are you very well worth.  And after all, I deserve to be unafflicted by silence and the void-of-response whispers which do now haunt over my hours of time in repose.  O’ lady love yonder by willow bows, blessed to be with the one for whom they have faith, there where lengthy thoughts, surpassing of substance will always remain untold.  Shapes without forms caught, formless prisoner pint in the pure white walls of myriodic imaginings and held, and they, giving thought to the naught that can be said of their betters, the things that can not even be known

         O’ my lady love who I would have is not here, she in yonder

But why am I, for her, the one in need?  Because she is the one I love; yet, in giving, the more I receive of the light that is much more than charitable, when more poor, of want, than in the lack of material possession.  Qualative, not quantative, is the value of her measure when made.  But no, my words speak untruly.  They have given no just description here.  For, both quality and quantity are within her power to yield.  So, I say: substantive, not superfluous, are all the affects that she was bestowed.  But how am I to bear an even better comparison to show, in full measure, my feeling—so that, of the equality in those simple words, my heart would be satisfied?

Maybe words wax far too poor in compare to that felling, and as limited qualifications they do only speak to meanings.  They give a conveyance of the intangible through the dulled instrument of reason and in such a way that even the infallible would seem to falter, though it be incapable.  But still I speak to say this:

Her eyes alone are the undefiled face of beauty.  So how would the whole fair when shown in its entirety?  Her face is but one whole body of elegant form refined, harmonious in design.  Her body is an entire universe unto itself, all the natural elements of a divine order, combined.  Not last nor least of all, her silent lips hold yet conceals her charms,

And in her, every ideal is composed in a soft sweet symphony, though not one of sound.  Why, just as it is within her fair show of poise, all transcendence forms a concerted motion, but what choreographs its actions can not yet be told.  It is only thus that here I can divulge what no one knows; and there it is, resident of the borders, bound.  Confined by the metal gold of a chalice’s hold, and securely kept.  I drink of it deeply and still plenty is always left of those still waters that sink so that they run to the sacred abyss of your depths and therefore are never dried, however.  And I thank heaven, my Lord, a God in the paradise grounds from which you, the fruit of one undefined essence, has sprung.  For sure I am grateful for the rare gifts that I would all but own, if I were, all in all, well received

there where it is love alone that lives within her ever embracing arms and hands that reach, that fondle, feel, and caress; that when tempted to touch, with signs express.  And after hearing replies, whisper wordless speech. A conveyance come from the heart that in translation never lies, telling falsely of thoughts so pure they easily confess: how near, how dear this dwelling space, this dwelling’s shape, away from which I could never wonder far from.

Moreover:

“With all that’s best hidden in veiled objects
The dark and the bright in their contrasts meet:
Skin, molding the shadows of the day, seat
Eyes likened to luminary aspects
In the night sky, aglow are the broken
Darts of slim light; and in such tender sights
One shade from shadow, one ray from the heights
Of the sun in heaven—to be given
To or taken away from the image
Of you would but surely make so much less
Your flawless grace.  O’ God, to be but one
Beam among many—having true privilege:
To wave within every raven tress,
To show in your fair configuration.”

So see, she has nothing less than my compassion and affection: undying, ever-growing.  The glowing warmth of a living love-alive, that with time’s duration, passing well, and, only with small indulgences, persist.

And I think not of love such as all loves are thought to be, but more along the lines of a humane affinity

Romantic love is not love at all, but merely a shallow replication.  A simplistic shadow containing only the smallest fraction of the material of which the truer matter is made.  But since that small sample makes up the surface skin and is so composed of such fanciful dreams, it is most oft thought to be the better.  Now, love in its truer version is not so simple, not so aesthetically inclined and does not seem so perfected.  In truth, we look onto all things with limited perception either filtering most flaws or adding many more than there are.  See though that this is only so when without bonds more entrenched.

But, as for me, should I have naught, no love whether false or true, and no longer want for wants.  They want not for me but, even when fed, leave me craving for more, for they are the fuels that feed the funeral pyre fires of both longing and desire, which without one of either there is not the other, and so in their dance with one another they make me, my heart the ground on which they trod; uncareful in their trespass and uncaring for this once brow beaten brawler, the one whom they only may forcibly fret, but, as to the core of tender feeling, they now more than gravely offend

lest harmonious order and spontaneous activity has us joined to this diversity that is then to be shared.  And mine, though not tireless, is an enduring effort that, even when so persuaded, never settles to the point to where it may not recover.  But, so unconvinced of my love are to say that it simple does not exist?  That, like simple imaginings, it ever too soon slips back into the recesses from which it was sent?

O’ come then ye flame with fiery tongue, licketh your fuel, that which is no less than the mortal flesh of me, that which I will gladly provide in sacrifice, till it is no more—gone, if need be.

Because what is worse is that what ever the space that would separate me from you, though merely a void, has my heart’s desire within its cold command. 

It cares not, nor has respect for the man / who would traverse it, a near infinite plane / only to have the distance closed

But still I will continue forward so that I might know a lie to be truth, the vision I, deceiving myself every waking day, dream is reality; that of you and I there is only one entity and so being made one neither part ever need be alone.  But no one is perfect so how in endeavor’s attempt to the pursuit of love can we, if not one within our union, hope to reach perfection?... 

A harmonious coupling, two living as one, never separately.  A bi-synchronicity, conforming in all of its symmetry.  The mutual necessity, two halved existences with our need, and in sharing that need, two halves made whole in their partnering.  A merger, with us there as intermingled essences of the spiritual being, consolidating into undivided quantities.  The combined currents of an essence, and no, not only “merging”, but, within their intermingling, overflowing. Or, are we Individuals melding within molds, within which each their substances were made to co-inhabit, and thus not remain as singularities.  Within one not so solitary space; and no, not so much competitively, but, instead, as to one another, that much the more respectfully. Or Maybe we are rotating bodies orbiting in pathways elliptical—Falling, falling, yet falling all around; though falling all around, still, never touching ground.  Satellites circling about an avatar of all, and all being embodied within one single entity. We, a never ending, an even flowing procession of affinity—Humanity: human.  Humane: more human than human.

Interweaving muscle fibers, biological threadings, spiritually cellular.  In an ontogeny, bipedula-biota; bi-synchronous and sympatic, yet eurythmical; symmetric—radial and bi-lateral, spherical—i.e. three dimensional; complete and consummate; immaculate, precise, and pure.  Forever eterne, never will it be dysgenic; ad infinitum, without end.  An omnipotent upsurge of neuro activity and simulations; pre-acoustic audio [expectation] and post-optic visuals [memories] are forced through mea synapses—no culpa, no culpa; le petit mort; pornographically profane; though completely cardinal, solemnly sacred:  though corporal consumption, spiritually fulfilling. Karmic sutra, kuma nirvana

As iridescent as phylum light, raging forth by the breaking flare of budding floret—it the warm breath that is best known to life; embodied, existing as an essence inherited from the most subtle structures, matter and space compiled by time, its passing, seasonal sentimentality modified into strictitures, the estates of functional form holding with in confines that avatar of all—the reposite rose on thorn`ed vine; Rose renowned and vine tributary.

Look there love, to it, to where I give you a mirror that gives back; for how many more have seen the revelation of their own true image.  And which is it?  None or very, very few that did not deserve much, much more

when more than love should is my feel for that same sake infinitum, within whose ephemeral folds, these mere residue dews I leave here, incomplete.

The weight of which are to bow its head; they, the same, saying here condescends a 
queen who can only be humbled by her own will alone?

And creative design does wax poor.  So outmatched by God’s more graceful embodiment of virtue that, that by far and well eclipses this, his secondary mode of manifestation, for it is through me, my pen, his will moves.  He a guide, the source from which even all origins are comprised. 

But despite all the emotions, these notions being here and now expressed, I inquire of you not, when without want for an answer.  Nor shall I haunt your steps just to simulate an unease that you would have in my absence; then, were there no source of fulfillment for your dissatisfied heart.  There is no demand for that which you would unwillingly provide.  No.  My love being in better accord with decorum’s true form, your discomforts I am vowed to ease, even if it means my removal from your sight, so that then my presence may not your already content contemplations offend.

Still, here I have made an alter to take my offering, where you will receive the whole of my worship, no less than all that I have to give.  And yes, my love, I would pay any sum to be by your side, for you are owed our fortune just for being fortunate enough to house the rose red beauty, unblemished; the lily white virtues, uncompromised; an exalted elegance, unchallenged.  All the treasures that random chance so very rarely endows women with.  And here is also where I forfeit my ownership of both soul and merit, finally finding my end; my birth, my life, my death within one long breath exhaled.  The very virtues that would take me to heaven, relinquished—For but one woman whom I have not yet met, but have seen glimpses of both in your presence and in the eyes of long lost loves.

--Cameron T. Brown




You are a friend, and it is you who have found me--even while on the outstretched landscape of infinite time. It is you who are so unique, and therefore, the bond we share now, the much more the rarer than uncommonly found. We--me and you--can hold on to this possession, despite even the ever trying distance and separation; in opposition to the space that surrounds--and do so with a one in a while sweet whisper exchanged. Your voice is the bridge, and the loving sentiment that it carries, chariots your conveyance, igniting the fire of memory within me--where, within, your spirit is made to be eternally alive, and I know it will never die. Securely kept within my soul, your essence never less than sleeps; it is never merely confined. For it is thus that it frees me from bonds and solitary voids. So, all said in a single statement made too brief to encompass all due meaningfulness of inward effect within an outer expression, your presence is wholefully and profoundly enriching.