A Sestina on Remorse and Tender Soccur
That deep Echo doth hold my feet in thrall, a minute forg'd of bitterest rue and spite, for I may not flee the ceaseless tumult the past hounds after my steps. I ken full well these long-held judgements are all my own creation, the very artisan of ruin, of dire oblivion's might, and of the covert wounds I dealt, without salvation's plea, traumas that ne'er found earnest parlance nor gravity.
I imbibe the injury that finds me, prithee, as I do drain the aqua vitae's melancholic draught in this tavern dim, musing on cogitations that should remain unconceived by me. Yet in that chaos, a flower sprang, of unbecoming limb, 'midst fissures irrepairable, yet strangely doth it thrive, as if its root were perfectly plac'd, e'en on the brim. This hope did surface in my state of torpor, not as a wound to suffer physick's cure, but as the genesis of a forgotten course I laid long since, which I did deem interr'd these ten years in the earth's demesne, yet now, it is resurgent, all effulgent, and doth bloom in sure array.
In the intercourse of mutual love, a fervent, internecine spirit is born inside, hunting for veracity in the trespass and errors made, e'en vindicating faults that should be left unsaid, unforlorn. Yet all this tempest is but pure lustral water, laid to irrigate the flow'rs of our covenant: for Love demands its sustenance, which is supplied by sharp disputation and heavy strife spanning many sunrises. In the denouement, we find our way back to joint step and firm intent, where the chagrin of failure doth cease to be a matter of antagonism but a human frailty to be embraced and absolved.
Hark! The answer doth at last appear unto my sight, from a heart that felt betrayed and deem'd undone by fate, proving a crevice still remains where Love may find its light, brought by a soul whose presence is unfaltering, early and late; they quail not at the ambiguity of my temper's ebbs and flows, they hold the taming thread to bind the fiend that in my spirit grows, and they become the perfect stream which doth quench the furnace hot when that inner chimera burns with wrathful fire.
The telluric sphere doth now grow placid, no need for sealing lips, more calm without the need to stop the ear, or walk in solitude. It feels as though I must indulge in every tick of the chronometer of my latter half of days, beside this heart so good. Thus, the true riddle is to discover the Ambrosia's might. 'Tis mendacious to deny the wish for eternal subsistence, 'tis crude, yet Love is a self-possessed being, demanding of every soul to fiercely foster it, e'en when the spirit is rend'd to its whole. Still, finitude doth give quintessence to human passion's art, a visceral, deep upheaval that must be wholly embraced and felt, an imperative to be spent complete, and held fast. For treachery is the genesis of all despair, the ruin undwelt of trust; it finds no perfect balm. The stain of skepticism remains but it may be dressed and mended by felt honesty each day.
And I pray the ground is privy, I pray the world may heed the zeal of a love now render'd purer than the dawn's first dew. Whilst, the celestial vault doth exult at our replete convergence, the winged choristers compose their rhapsody, both old and new, having seen the radiance of our twin countenance's grace. The night grows balmy and star-laden when our hands interweave and our cogitations fuse in this most hallowed place, and the doom of my heart’s trajectory is vanquished and consummated by her, I believe.