Anna Provoda

IMG_4471With infinite heart and boundless soul, I love the spring and I shall never be accorded such to love so full again. If there in truth exists a God, he has given no mercy, answered no prayer nor soothed this tortured angel. In all his countenance, I alone am lost. But it is not God I blame, for how could God understand the depth of my heart when I allowed my love to blossom beyond immortal comprehension. Here lies then, the truth, I am alone to blame.

Only in the throes of Juliet’s passion have others known what I have known. That to find along one’s path a fallen star, brings only tragedy multiplied by a thousand courses of a thousand each, to those who stop to dally with that which does not belong aside the road.

Yet I gladly suffer the obscene. A thousand, thousand lesser loves I would again sacrifice for the greater love and coming loss. No love in all of human nature equals the forbidden sensitivity of my breast, the lightness of my thoughts nor enables flight of my soul.

In regards, I have but two sentiments. The first is of little consequence yet like a wasp, the danger flirts. Will it be that I shall be obliged to Hell for my love and all that is yet to arrive. Will it be that which I suffer through now, shall pale when set aside the dutiful agony of Satan’s domain. No matter the involved danger, grant me but one thought, a fleeting second among that demons rule every now and then, and I shall bear the pain. Perhaps with little ease, but I shall bear it. And if there is to be not that single thought, if that even is denied my soul, than it matters not for I truly have died. In this, I have no say, so the consequence is small and I care less, for their punishment is of no avail other than for amusement. My very soul will have ceased.

Yet I entertain the devil in a fashion that all this was his doing. That he, knowing the finality, gave us each other. If true, what could I ask of God? What guidance would he have advised, for surely any consul would be far to late.

In this matter, the truth I know is this, my concern is small. These are things beyond my life. In them, you will find no handiwork of my own design.

Of a higher regard, one which questions my every thought, I only ask that those who have carried the weight of traveling this far, judge me with compassion. It is you who will give my life worth, you who must judge and supply innocent or guilt. Indeed, you must do so! This is my foundation for worth. To what corners of clouded thought I go, is of little value. In your condemnations or your applause, will I live. If only you were able to sample a portion of how I loved, your conscription of my life into history would be gentle. I think not so. Rather, I believe your verdicts will be swift and cold, like a stone over which cold water flows. Would I myself, do less?IMG_4483

In all these musings, do you find a voice of regret? I wish you interpret not one solitaire word as such. I say it now clearly, I regret only my loss. My heart carries no misgivings to my actions yesterday or those to arrive with the morning sun. Nor am laden with sorrow in how I am to be judged.

With each fleeting second, my strength follows behind, wagging it’s tail. Time is no longer of essence. I have said what must be done. That which remains is nothing more than a canvass to diddle, to scrawl as a child when bored. Surely, the night remains even in the complexities of this morning light.

I fight for words, thoughts are slow, wandering in bits and pieces. One simple thought no longer part of the whole.

I returned to the beginning and my thoughts on that cool winter day bring pleasure. Not because of what my words say, much more so as to what they do not talk of. How could I have known then of the happiness which would follow?

Pleasure flies in the window and lites like a butterfly. The joy exists not only in the event, perhaps more in the memory.

2 thoughts on “Anna Provoda”

  1. Wow, Rob. Is Anna Provoda a real person? Your penned love for her conjures images for me of you transcribing notes of Shakespeare’s Romeo coming to Edgar Poe in a opiated dream while drinking scotch with Ernest Hemingway. (Quite a chain of events and even more so… an observation, wouldn’t you say?)

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