The Fool Man

The fool man submerged by his adoration of the female side of the species. And she has all the tricks of trade, and plays him. He is overwhelmed by a part of himself, he can't desist. And the lady is the artist and she is a painter and a walking deception. And he will speak of his love for her, when in reality the love that he believes that he has for her, is in his hunger. And love is the miracle, it evades, and it confuses, and it tacitly asks for understanding. It is not readily available, it desires explosion of the personal self, it isn't easy. And love is outside of physical touch, when it truly is love, and it is a unity of understanding and feeling. And when there is love, the expression of it in words, deviates from it. It is a pure thing in itself and doesn't seek accompaniment from any form or art, even though it may give itself to art also. Love I think in is silence and in the stillness and togetherness of two people. It is higher life, and it beams through the mundanity. It is alone. It is free and it is real.