I am standing here,
my thoughts a jumble of emotions and questions
cause there is nobody who makes me more foolish then you.
There is – once upon a time – said by Pope, he was a poet,
that not all idiots are poets,
and suppose, o suppose, that I am both
or just can’t keep the both of them apart.
I feel a tightness in my chest as I read his words.
Am I doomed to linger in this limbo between poet and idiot?
Do I have to be one or the other? Is there any way out?
I have no answers, I have to find a way to make sense.
I think of the words Pope had written: "Suppose, o suppose…"
Maybe there would a sign that I could be both a poet and an idiot -
that I could take both sides and find a balance between them.
Also there is written that love nowhere hides
not even – for a moment – in the special
not even in the beauty of your eyes.
I think mostly wrong, but this time right,
’cause in there love does not hide, no, there is she.
...
We have already found each other, before even a single word has been uttered.
I see your soul as if it was the clearest crystal. It must be the way in.
I may have no answers. I may have to find a way to make sense.
Suppose, o suppose I could do just that. The poet and the idiot would blend.
But nowhere is written or spoken what love is about
no sound, no letter
not even a whisper or a shadow
still I know, I do,
it is impossible to say out or put in ink
but I know how it is won and I know what it is
it is what makes two people one
heavenly bliss.
...
The air is heavy with the silence of questions that were never asked and answers that were never given. But somewhere, unspoken, is the answer to the one question: What is love?
It is unanswerable. A play on ones senses.
But suppose, o suppose...
Yes, Pope was right,
not all idiots are poets,
so a poet am I, I suppose,
as I agree – while putting pen to paper – that love nowhere hides
not even in the beauty of your eyes
no, there is she.
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