Eowyn

If I have the idea—to hold, or touch—a simple word
Without meaning, or essence—is it futile orgasm?
Such imagination is a joyful sorrow, lethargic
Drama of words, or syntax; I dream
of string—theory of love, but only in semiosis.

I have no words to portray my love—is it geometrical?
Dying like a coldstar, radiating like a blackhole
Wandering in the ecliptic plane, of my heart. I dream
of Love, chaos of the cosmic dark! I dream
of you but only in inseparable geometry.

What is love if verse
is cold—
a dead star
in Euclidean space?