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Alone, I Paint Like Renoir It may be easier to levitate than to love as amor can necessitate putting on a face, many times and places. Smiling while the heart is fractured and flayed. Acting a part, a role in a Pinter play. Love seems ineluctably complex which confounds and perplexes. Comes a noir heaviness of being, a long journey to reveille, to turn the heart toward light and sight the self again. As a seed holds promise, so do we sow our garden of love, swearing to care, pardon, nurture. But the efforts needed may make one wary, become a futile task. I ask: is true love necessary? |
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