If only I could ascribe
all affection and inclination
that there dwells silently inside
to flights of the imagination
and crafts of a spirit most unkind,
that I in such do take dire pride,
the torture of the inner mind
I then attempt to actualize.
If only that were the extent
of the labors oft performed
in name of Aros’ great intent
and all convictions were deformed.
But alas, I ache to see,
that while pretension does abound,
the soaring thought of purity
does and always will hold ground.
It does flourish; it does thrive
in the most unlikely places,
the glance of ardor is alive
in the most sardonic faces.
That bitter cross of bliss and pain,
though feared by scores and throngs
will be felt and felt again
if for sound joy one longs.
And so I fear I cannot hide,
and what afflicts me still:
when rapture bids I let it guide
go to the fire I will.
note: I was hesitant to post this because I simply cannot write in iambic tetrameter. Iambic pentameter drove me mad in 9th grade, and I vowed never to bother with it again.
