First Speech At The Last Tinder Date Poem by fabio vicentini

1

o lady we have but the life we seek

and our experience alone can't provide

enough comparisons to make us meek;

although we say, always with precise pride,

how good we are at being sympathetic

to a person's need, we aren't; we mimick

foreign minds as if they had to praise us

and we forget we never leave the thick

grasp of words that has the world in its noose

and the other to give significance purpose.

2

we must move toward each other to feel

the universal love that unites all.

how can we learn to be loved, when our real

concern is to evade thoughts that appall

for the sentence that upon us should fall

were we known how we feel ourselves to be.

better hide, better forget that we deal

with reason's private evil tyranny:

the voice that covers the lover with blasphemy.

3

out, out fleeting joy, let us chase outdoor

the ridiculous humour that was once

a surprise scorched by promises for more.

let us reach other pubs or the distance

that bends a mountain to our will, a chance

to extend the limits of our boredom

beyond any quiet recognition. Since

too much confessing comes to a lonesome

mind, let's travel and spread our slackness to face doom

4

depth, we are obsessed with depths. surfaces

we despise, as they reflect an image

too alike the memories whose traces

we struggle to erase. The camouflage

of worshippers of depths is to engage

curiosity in devotional

denial of its frigid span, its coinage

being the maxim extension the ideal

allows us to peer for insights we deem final.

5

yet there's vanity, our most discouraged

saviour; it is for her that we declare

we care for values to be protected,

that are the orbits on which our gesture

is stripped of its spontaneity to glare

like a law that humankind must mirror

for conflicts to end by how close they fare

to copy our grounding core. Thus error

is the reward for the measure we're the bearer.

6

again and again, we dare intervene

where our senses, following beauty, point,

that is to an epitaph for a scene

we decide our duty to anoint

with verbal balms of soar ease and not hint

at the decay repetition breaches

in the cherished pure impressions. but the taint

we can't purify is that our forces

don't stitch the breath on harmony striving graces.

7

no dear, we aren't eternal. this might seem

obvious but it is so only if you

haven't yet found that the world is how we

claim

to be our vision. why not Continue,

then? why not be reborn like earthly dew?

we are too tired for not wanting to die

at some point. Then finally end the few

desires we have failed to sum our lives by,

tarrying for conquests that in silence yet lay.

8

only self-loathing is endless. we can

always further shun our nursling coil. our

engagements and commitments, the tran-tran

we put ourselves through for reaching rarer

blank flashes that blur the blame closing near.

not the faith in future hands, nor the worth

of smiles defeating the cold empower

us so much as surrendering to the loathe

that in deepening darkness pit offers rage's soothe.