If ever I sang

for dear Tassels of hair,

which,

gleaming as they do,

not anything compares,

 

with elegance, where,

so sweet Your eyes,

in beams, luminescent,

to mine

declare:

 

that terrible

such this life

now seems

 

not longer

shall be

when souls

unleash!

 

and hearts tear

Open

what man so occults,

in fear for what others

might do with their

Faults:

 

Destroy such children

who within us lived,

Before

pale adult cracks

so rendered us

glib!

 

And this, not only,

but we also 

crash

what

 

Egos,

 

so black,

too, sickly

trash:

 

that miracle,

dear, that

unites against

Fear,

 

that soft such

Touch

as reminds of

the Pier

 

where ships so dock

as to abundantly load

such land, once barren,

until now, would erode:

 

that sparkle we 

found,

when faces were

close,

 

that eruption,

within,

when skin

would propose:

 

that never again

shall adults

so defile

 

what laughter,

inside,

makes of You,

shapes of me,

that Eternal Child!

 

Times such as these,

yes,

it seems quite imagined,

that something, like

This,

could ever really happen,

 

For cynical stares

are all such know,

in this Mechanical Age,

as all drearily flow:

 

Conformed, inward dead,

poetically starved,

and Artificial instead,

as in a ruthless canard:

 

that speaks as if no such

Hearts

may boldly so exist

or any longer impart

 

what soulful,

ancient,

passion can start,

when Love so brave

Now

dares to do Art

 

Look, now,

and see

What always can

Be

 

when the Torch returns

in Promethean

glee,

 

As Courage,

Affection,

so tenderly breed,

 

what remains in us

Alive, 

 

ready

Always,

 

to Complete.

 

_________________

 

R.V. Smith: “Imaginary Love”, 11-24-25

 

© 2025 by Ryan Vincent Smith