The Blood of Flux

There’s something rich in sadness; and something naïve in
Joy. My maxim: an optic slant. And bliss, but a segment—
But such rapture. I must reappear, lost in a haze, mourning
Separation. And joy, a rapid rush; and grief, the ink of tears.
Howbeit, my love, the soul, rapt’d—in sullen joy. Such
Wisdom, the catacombs of pang. Thus ecstatic, the richest
Joy; and thus naïve, the richest pain. My passion grave, a
Crooked law; and rationale, a spirit flame. Thus forbidden,
A logic sea; and thus the hurt—a thought’s abyss. Befriend
The soul, my precious swan, and flog the doubt—a sophic
Sword. And yet and still, the richest death; and yet and still,
The greyest joy. My vapid verse, a sore attempt—and deep
The cut—a fractured bone. But joy to pain, a fleet of
Ghosts, and crypt to joy, the blood of flux.