First and Last

"The ode lives upon the ideal, the epic upon the grandiose, the drama upon the real." - Victor Hugo

I could write an ode to you;

The you in the mirror ... The you out there everyday.

I could write exactly what you think of yourself.

The insecurities, the fallacies you weave.

The limitations you place on yourself.

... In an ode to humanity, we'd realize that all our ideals intertwine.

-Is that a sign of intelligent design?

I could wax lyrical about your beauty.

Your inner beauty ... That force of character that counterbalances your insecurities.

I could show the world all the pain you've faced.

But what purpose would that have served?

- Just a loud boy crying for attention.

It could be an epic.

The tales of what were, what are ... what could have been and what could be.

So many what ifs.

Almost like our existences are predicated on the uncertain.

 What is certainty really?

"And so it came to be that woman fell for man, and in falling, she brought him with her ... he was willing"
Willing to give it all up for
-Love ... The undefinable force that drives us all.
Giving it up for an ideal.
The idea that maybe this time it would work out.
(It didn't)
-Right people, wrong time.
Melliferous sounds of love turning to shrieks 
Then silence.


"All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling." - Oscar Wilde