“I don’t know/therefor I am certain” is surely
the lover’s conundrum: knowledge from ignorance,
greedy yet generous, the thirsty little barb
that sinks its teeth in and never lets go.
Isn’t that exactly how we get here,
wherever the here is that we find us?
And yes, it hurts so bad that we cry
but it also hurts so sweetly that we pray
when we pray (and of course
we don’t pray often enough)
that it will never, ever stop
not even once,
not even when we say it does not matter
because it does— matter, that is—
not just hurt.
This poem grew from two lines from another poem that just couldn’t work themselves in. As I often do in such cases I removed the offending lines to see how it affected the poem and it benefited from their deletion. The lines I took out included the words “a lover’s conundrum” and so they went on to become this poem.
Thank you for reading It does, the deeper, the harder. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed it and I humbly appreciate your visiting the Book of Pain. As always, I look forward to your comments.
© 2012 by John Etheridge; all rights reserved. This poem and accompanying notes are licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License. This applies to all original work found on this site, unless noted otherwise. The attribution claimed under the license is: © 2012 by John Etheridge, https://bookofpain.wordpress.com.