Ascetic of the Heart

Kneeling on a faux brick floor
older than he, thoughts aswirl
with a common thread;

Love.

What it is, and
the kinds thereof.

Many the poet, tried and tested,
or not, have writ
more words on this
than any other - even this
old fool has writ the words
before.

And he knows.
He knows the moment
his pen is retired
from the scratchings
another will come discrediting
his claim - perhaps even the fool
will be the contradictor, and still
he must explain to her -
for himself.

The simplest, basest, a Love
of, for, body - all others he thinks
might be based - not dependent -
herein. Whether
the screaming thrashings
of ecstasy, or the slow, passionate
embraces afterwards, carnal - simple -
beautiful in its expression - this
is the First Love.

The second, built -
though not dependent
upon the first - of mind
and heart. The steadfast
devotion of one being
to another, where one shelters
the other, and in that sheltering,
is sheltered.

More mature
than the First Love
it can be given to moments
of exquisite physical
passion - this is the Second
Love.

Third
can never exist without
the uncarnal second -
though first is irrelevant. The pure
Love of the monastic
only tasted by
ascetic
of the heart. This
is the love of the artist
for the model, the poet
for the Muse. The passion
of the soul that permits
ecstasy without ever
touching. This
is how he would
Love - the Third
Love.

The Communion
of Mind across space
and time.

_{(For She Who Knows :: 02-27-2010)}