Oh for the love of a poet. You should be so lucky. Or damned. Oh for the love of he who looks to die for his art. If only you were art. Oh for the love that relentlessly and unceasingly is love incarnate: breathing and alive and busting at the seams and joyously pining and exulting and euphoric and playing it all out and with music and see there’s just no other way, nor could there ever truly be, cause it’s incarnate and incarnate defined is: Embody or represent (a deity or spirit) in human form.
Oh for that love.
If only you were art.
Cause the love of a poet knows no bounds and when the love of one who looks to die for his art looks at the art in you, there’s just no other way, nor could there ever truly be- and if you don’t feel damned then, there’s no love of a poet for you.