Love unseen until it is seen dirfting away.

I have become a man in which need spend only a few moments around a women to 'know' if there is anything left to exsplore, this sad fact has left me single, and lonley for much time now. I have really never needed the company of another, but as I age I have disdain now for solitude. I still find it amazing how many look in bar's and other trains of society, when the wind they never catch. But really, where is there to go to meet single people anymore, no one hangs out at places in which you never think them to be anymore, and life seems to be nothing but a slipstream of nothingness, that is best ignored, than embraced or drawn close too. In passing women throughout the daily maze of life, I look into there eye's, and feel the presence of soul, seeing if there is resonation, for I resonate with women of calm, warmth, and intuitiveness. A balance of self, for self, and then exstending this to another; strong, when strength is needed, but when not a gentle flower so molded in beauty, that words become pointless, imagination only conceiveing it. There have been many times; out of fear or self conscienceness, that I have looked away from eye's wanting to look at mine, saying ' hello there', speak to me, for I want you to', and yearing to hold my stare, as I turned it away. I am tired of my heart being treated as a childish prank, but still yearn, to love, and be loved by a wife again. But to most I am damaged goods, and that is fine for they dont deserve me anyway. I want to write another poem of 'love', for it really existing within again. I have written about speaking, for then the opportunity of 'saying' such things in which is bubbling at the heart are not said, then the moment passes, eventually ceases within itself. And the what-if is born, and it is a reasonable reasoning, but not for long, and I will let my mouth free. On the other hand, speaking the things in which are desired to be spoken will progress the state of desire, resulting in an outcome of the desired desire. Blah blah blbiahb ieoipvwub aiub we;nbaw nfbw wl, what I am trying to say is that once again I have seen a face, eye's to soul, spirit, of another that I think of when her picture is not in my eye, the minds eye then imaginates the thought path tree into the distant future, as I do everything in which I think about; both of which are my downfall and briallance. Slide moves agross screen, of the doorway that preludes his thoughts, showing him a journey in the springlife grasses of daylight bosoms's, a fander within the realm of its captivity it soothes the wounds of desperation, of the coming infliction of universal tithings. 'But what of those families, did there line not travel the road of ten warrior's, or am I mistaken at the forgetfullness of your heart?' No, I remember, it was not that long ago, when the seven bridges fell, and this wind cometh stronger by day, into the place of refuge, the last of the strengths, for the time for mightyness is here. 'The way of her is pleasant, but is it strong to handle the wind within, the vast space of permeation that ebbs out, then flows'? I do not know, for the dream is waking, and the sort that disquiet the mind, elucidations lead me to the palm of the hand, feeding there in scent for a time, then moving below the cloads larking within the realm of realization, the mere thought of it I deny, for the habit of, has become in me, hopeless fool that I am, a fool for believing in such things as love, mere mortal fallacy for our crutchfull existence. 'Oh now, the times of being hard on self are over, the period of morning has passed, let rest what should rest, for the past is the stalker in the night, leave darkness alone, return to the light." The light does not suit me anymore, for the light is now hot on the skin, melting away what hope still exist, and now the desert awaits, teasing me with water from it's mirage of dirt, seeping into the imagination, only to root the brain of desire anylonger......... Far removed is another conversation, this time taking place between a mother and son, twice removed from them is another, but a couple, talking about the memories of ago, while sitting in a cold room, laying one down to go to sleep. Three times is a child, born of love, but dying in hate, his only wish is that it come sooner. 'You see, vison is useless unless is it is used, not just glanced at. At present you exspect the worst, then this is what you will get. Emerging from the half dream of conscienceness I realize that instead of turing the glance I will make one. Create future, not that It is fully known, but because there is nothing left to do, but create.