The Writer's Voice

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Jim Ciccolini

Aimlessly, in circles, repeating without end,
each moment is a blow, far too vicious to tend.
When words do cease to live as hearts do intend,
and, with the stress's weight, reality does bend.

Riveted upon ideals whose flavor's lost all spice,
causing fluctuating stings from white fire to blue ice.
Lukewarm a fond memory and never to suffice.
Thus is the sorrow of instability's dear price.

Though death seems not to come to the ever-bleeding heart,
and ever is it torment to love and be apart.
Much safer are we all should we never, ever start,
but foolish, nonetheless, to reject life's greatest art.

So trapped are we all within this world's unending maze
confined within the midst of its thick, translucent haze,
and, here, too, will we all spend our last remaining days
restricted and in bindings of the world's sightless ways.

But in sleep our eyes are opened to the world beyond,
sweet, pleasant love upon a crystal clear pond.
Fantastical dreams: unbreakable bond.
As cosmic lovers, eternally fond.

Until the eyes do open and the heart's abrupt dismiss,
immediately consciousness is shaken to amiss.
Unless the eyes, together, awaken with a kiss,
then, verily, will the heart recall euphoric bliss.

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