the soul is the master of itself

he frets:

what passion is this that

comes dawning over my horizon

like a prowling feline?

i am unawares

and ill-prepared, my

heart now inflated,

my mind thrown into flux

make it stop!

(but stop it slow)

make it cease!

(but fill me first)

i'd say to him: consider

every new love is an 

exercise in delicate variations

of chaos, its violence truth to the core

he paces in a stir and says

to the muse who brought him

here: i don't know but i'm alive

it's you! it's you! blesséd you!

but i'm torn, have i gone too far?

but maybe not far enough? i've been

struck by this and it's sent me into

undulating fits of joy and fear

i'd suggest to him: you see,

you want to master

the reigns to something

God set wild in The Beginning

you desire to be

transported just deep enough

then halt at the line you've

heeled in the sands of your heart

yet the soul is the master

of itself, boundless, and

it holds what it holds and gives

back to the universe unbound

and it humors none who'd

be its champion, beguiles

those who would attempt

to beguile it with reason

so know that if you leaped

(and you leaped, you leaped)

you did so with the wonderment

of a man soul-seduced

and while a breathless descent is the

expectation: a short, furious

fall ended by the impact of

colliding stars,

if you listen, open your

eyes, breathe, and feel

the pull from without

and the heat from within

you will realize that

the world leaped from you

in the moment this passion

came to play

you have the lover

now in an airy sway above

the cosmos, so dance

with her

and leave love to its

uncontrollable devices