A Cynical Hope

I hope for a reciprocal love,
once ancient, once divine,
like midnight for the moon.

Can such love be in modern times,
so hurried, so insincere,
and burnt out by noon.

This love for which I hope I know must exist,
for I persist to seek it out;
or perhaps it is childish to maintain such a hope
in so cynical an age.


The games we play have become commonplace;
we use, tease, take advantage of grace,
until we, each other, are full bitter with hate,
and the heart of the entire human race breaks.

Oh, I know it is folly to hope for love perfect,
but folly not to hope for love perfect in pieces;
moments of transcendence that soar like eagles through clouds,
like pillows laid soft on a bed made with creases.
Neither form nor formula is capable of such creation,
of duel hearts that beat like sun for blue sky.
I know not if it is all in my imagination,
I know not if hope can maintain you and I.

What I know is of old, that beauty is truth,
that flesh came from flesh best bestowed by youth;
and though cynical as the spirit of the age,
I long to touch it again.

Originally written and posted 8/11/11