Love Links
She loves me! She loves me too! And you? Not so sure about her!
Well little girls, normally I'd tell you all to shut up, but I have a little question for you...
Can I draw some hope from you? Hope that in amongst us evil human creatures, there are a few perfect shining examples, full of light, full of love, who look forever innocent with optimism at another, at any other, as if watching a bird jump happily around in an everlasting, evergreen old tree. Humans who suppose that maybe, just maybe, inside everyone there is a pure, beautiful soul, like religion says there just might be, like true love wants there to be; O hopeful, open, utterly-loving few, from you may I draw my hope?
And yet, you will disappear, perhaps as a tectonic plate fists another, and vibrations fists the waves, and a tsunami fists the continents and their hotels and shacks, and then from the earth out your unique, gratuitous light goes. Or perhaps perishing like a paralyzed fist, with the limp end of action in a dim old-age. Or perhaps with a madness that is like a fist with all the fingers broken, as you realise you signify nothing. Or perhaps at the end of a bullet, flying through your skull like a fist, a fist quivering metres away holding a fist-hard gun, the smoke from which rises up like plumes of dirt from a crematorium, or from a cigarette? Or perhaps a man will stand over you at the last gate, with one fist suffocating your nose and mouth, the other churning around in your flowers? Your lives, suddenly as empty as an empty fist – but without the fist. And the only trace of you that will remain is an internet page nobody will bother to read any more, if they even bother to read it now.
How could I dare to love you back? How could I dare to draw hope from you?
Well little girls, normally I'd tell you all to shut up, but I have a little question for you...
Can I draw some hope from you? Hope that in amongst us evil human creatures, there are a few perfect shining examples, full of light, full of love, who look forever innocent with optimism at another, at any other, as if watching a bird jump happily around in an everlasting, evergreen old tree. Humans who suppose that maybe, just maybe, inside everyone there is a pure, beautiful soul, like religion says there just might be, like true love wants there to be; O hopeful, open, utterly-loving few, from you may I draw my hope?
And yet, you will disappear, perhaps as a tectonic plate fists another, and vibrations fists the waves, and a tsunami fists the continents and their hotels and shacks, and then from the earth out your unique, gratuitous light goes. Or perhaps perishing like a paralyzed fist, with the limp end of action in a dim old-age. Or perhaps with a madness that is like a fist with all the fingers broken, as you realise you signify nothing. Or perhaps at the end of a bullet, flying through your skull like a fist, a fist quivering metres away holding a fist-hard gun, the smoke from which rises up like plumes of dirt from a crematorium, or from a cigarette? Or perhaps a man will stand over you at the last gate, with one fist suffocating your nose and mouth, the other churning around in your flowers? Your lives, suddenly as empty as an empty fist – but without the fist. And the only trace of you that will remain is an internet page nobody will bother to read any more, if they even bother to read it now.
How could I dare to love you back? How could I dare to draw hope from you?
posted by Fist at 17:30
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