my heart,

a mood of morose but firm resolution is instilled upon a certain discomforting realization.

beyond objectives of iniquity

and conversely of benevolence,

there lurks an elusive mistress in the darkest recesses of our mind’s reveries.

my heart,

can’t you see?

suppose that our love is this woman,

what then?

this woman found us.

she is our fate.

we are endowed with the tortured love of generations before.

a love tainted by envy, vanity and pride.

belonging to those hearts who suffered greatly in the fires of primeval

Pandæmonium.

where the tortured love bequeathed was forged.

you and i have all but happened upon such a love and by no fault of our own.

though, we must take responsibility, nonetheless.

but how?

how can we tend to a wound we do not understand.

photo: Marilyn Monroe by Ralph Steadman – ‘Paranoids,’ 1986

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