42. O magnum mysterium

Spin fragrantly
in sweet oblivion:
the dancers blush
amidst the swirling bees -

In clearest day,
the lilting petals judge,
unseeing leaves
incapable to say;

Naive, demure,
assent to every whim
so pliantly,
the next the merrier:

Such faces mute
in unrequited bliss,
their secret art
an enigmatic tune -

My feeble wiles
to such a riddle fail:
Their silence is
a stronger stuff than smiles.

41. Dearest

Tell me,
the sun – could it be thus explained
to blind men?
Scarce well-adjusted to its light,
I doubt so;
such brilliance, such vibrancy:
I fail here –

Dearest,
I cannot tell you such I know;
I shield you.
I hardly know the rules myself
but hope that –
the art transcends the feeble means
and reaches -
                       here:

40. A Moment

Enveloped in some distant thought,
you turned to me;
still lost in muddled reverie
distracted blinked,
as if awakened from a dream
to dream again:
a smile whipped upon those lips –
and caught my breath;
this spontaneity, this joy -
alarmed me so,
such recognition undeserved:
it startled me,
this unrepentant chivalry –
oh! had I thought
such isolation and resolve
could save me too,
could render me immune to this?

Instead, that smile -
had pressed its ultimatum thus,
enticing, rare;
how such a small acknowledgement
could turn me mute!
and though a thousand storms of thought
so futile fought,
I - hesitant, confused – collapsed,
surrendering,
still blinking my bewildered eyes,
and unprepared
was forced to see the blinding sun
and wordless, smiled!

39. Superiority Complex

I. Vissi d’arte

We live on
butterfly wings and moonshine;
we reside in mountains of the gods.
Immortal muses, oracles.
We cast our fatal whims
unto the course of history:
you will remember us, forever.

A delicate breed,
lighter than air:
we radiate our prophetic suns,
and you cower in your
mortal-ness.

We break easily,
but repair well.
We grow prettier with age,
features beatified until we
become our own
epitaphs.

II. Test Tube Baby

Observing and pretending,
all gathered for the harvest season.
It all is masks and mirrors –
yet all of this seems so well acted;

Though this is who they are:
an exile in familiarity,
the silent outcast sees
too clearly where the weary difference lies.

We all are meant for this –
this hyper-symmetry, these fragile means,
and all this labouring:
experiments – show nothing of oneself.

Oh, I have acted best,
becoming one such Individual,
this seamless stitch of Us,
mundane, presentable, unwavering;

But I cannot relinquish
the secret of my own creation,
for in those glassy confines,
my everlasting slavery was born.

III. Escape Artist

Construct –
an alternate
reality:
alla Donizetti.
Words hear
like arias,
glass harmonicas
intersplice
my elaborate
cadenzas –

You are all
colours.
Pursuing you,
flitting, one to another, feverish –
you must have
fled some other opera
and invaded
mine –