The Indifferent, written by John Don, now a revised metaphysical poem. With a little bit of help from John t.v.r.z. dot com, here now On Anchor FM podcasting app, free on the Google Play Store, download it, baby!
Now we are reading indifferently
I CAN love both fair and brown; both dark and light.
Her whom abundance melts, and her who want betrays; a fullness beyond pale moonbeams in a deep silent ink night.
Her who loves loneness best, and her who masks and plays; the test better than the architect of it.
Her whom the country form'd, and whom the town; bloomed overflowing from her ever-present love betwixt all these ten thousand things.
Her who believes, and her who tries;
She who still weeps with spongy eyes, interrupted by these eternal joys to cease all returning to dreams. Awakened.
And her who is dry cork, and never cries. Rising quickly if ever submerged.
I can love her, and her, and you, and you; love floats.
I can love any, so she is not true. And never in another but yourself truth always was, is and will be.
Will no other vice to content you?
Will, it did not serve your turn to do as did your mothers?
Or have you all old vices spent, and now would find out others?
Or doth a fear that men are true to torment you? Or is silence a greater teacher than screaming?
O we are not, be not you so;
Let me—and do you—twenty know;
Rob me, but bind me not, and let me go.
Must I, who came to travel thorough you,
Grow your fix'd subject because you are true?
Venus heard me sigh this song;
And by love's sweetest part, variety, she swore,
She heard not this till now; and that it should be so no more.
She went, examined, and return'd ere long,
And said, "Alas ! some two or three
Poor heretics in love there be,
Which think to establish dangerous constancy.
But I have told them, 'Since you will be true,
You shall be true to them who're false to you.'
I will be able to adoration myself mutually trading events and brown; hair.
Her whom a large quantity melts, in me, and her in whom neediness betrays; me.
Her who loves me loneness best, and her who masks and plays; my heart.
Her whom the country form'd, and whom the town; bloomed ripened white.
Her who believes, and her who tries; ripened now.
Her who nevertheless weeps with elastic eyes, no watcher of shadows play. Only light witnessing the truth and no type of reflection playing upon perceptions weakness.
And her who is soaked up cork, and in no way cries. To be being as God is as I do... But now relief makes me God, without effort or any insecurity that was my lot.
I know how to have a weakness for her, and her, and you, and you; me myself.
I tin in thin foil for freshness find irresistible any seed God plants. any, as a result, she is not true. But You are.
Will no other secondary desire satisfy you?
Will it does not fulfill your corner to get something done as did your mothers?
Or receive you each and everyone from the past vices spent, and in half, a shake would regain out of others, what?
Or doth a terror that men are genuine torture you? For we are, true and the truth.
Or we are not, be not you so; to know some other man's dream but your own. I come unknown alone to see this empty hidden throne.
Let me—and act in you—twenty times knowing.
Rob me, but oblige me not, and assent to me go. I return then.
Must I, who came to trek thorough you, come back and ye do not recognize me?
Grow your fix'd subject, for the reason that you are true?
I am me as you are you, but in the final layer pulled. You are me pushed out from myself only seeming, and in no illusions or incarnate dream am I not God, but believe that acted, scripted role out here now on the metaphysical theater's stage, an Anchor FM podcast.
Venus heard me sigh this song;
And by love's sweetest part, variety, she swore, blue blazes beyond sailors' finest articulated expression of frustration.
She heard not this till now; for I had only just now penned it in, the ink still wet. Johntvrz.com
