He says he understands .
Mr Nietzche lived in a certain peculiar age, when as things would have it, the finesse was dragged out .
The finesse of accumulation , resulted.
And wait and wait since then,
Since,
Because, after it left, the finesse, that sweet flower,
The evil of which highlighted its savage beauty,
Nothing to take its place.
Oh, she was such a gambler they would say, fortunes lost, on trifles and trinkets to make up for them,
Bizarre how wars full as did that mad king who supported Sigfried’s lament, did not venture into
The depravity descend, of daring not to be,
a spendthrift.
The cross to follow now is not, any more in the vanity, but on miscevious grins, and glorious resurrections. Wait for me, I will, as for you,
I would give you my last farthings, as payment for your soul, if only you would love me.
Wait for me will you, no one in particular days to another peculiarly no body, so as we could perchance meet, in the middle of the night, under a bridge, per chance, a silvery crescent moon overhead, that our commitment to each other be sealed.
But in days to come as wearily we seek that precious embrace, that frugal sentiment, where the heaving bosoms fall ignoble , marked with so dread of invisibility as no other, even to death,
That, or scoot phobic friends will remember us for what we really meant to them, and take this brazen journey to our last ring, bravely spitting through the fog, loving those who cannot see us, and learning with them the art of pointillist if near sightedness,
alone now, with them, will they let us gaze as their
countenance revolves around as now a flexed and stretched she ditch film, irresolute
merging, indiscerned with myraids of others ,
Now, before, after, this and that here, now a milkmaid pulling up jugs of a deep well, frozen in time could of been your mother, mine, ours
Or even you sweet Caroline.
But then , oh, as was Dido abandoned, on such jagged shore, into the deepest azure, brazing proud against the rising wail of eternity’s heavy onslaught,
If receptive could hear all possible routes,
Deliriously scenic, pungent with exquisite possibility.
Then how can you be but bored, the soul rush headlong into such sweet face as yours,
and still, forget, that once this sandstorm stilled,
the sun shone for a tiny, lonely while
to let your visage coalesce and stay, oh, stay
for a while.