A Love Song

The young man loved and the young man died
That is the beginning and that is the end
Should his soul move on to a greener pasture
Or fall short and into a purgatory of its own divising
A simplistic choice, and an obvious one
But he trips and he falls more than once when he loved
And being dead, the ghost can't fall, cause the ghost can't walk
Should this be his end all be all forever and to the end
Should it be his choice to reach each new low with a peak of curiousity
Or to face each woe with a woe as me chip buried deep in his chest
All the world he wanted to have, standing alone in front of that big ole stage microphone
Caught on the microfilm of a thousand little beady eyes
That darted and photographed his perfection of imperfections
His cotton candied hair and his tie dye t-shirt under that overstuffed over coat
Maybe the tasteless trigonometry of this uncommon mortification could save him
He's only looking into the smoke and mirrors to see a muddled version of his current self
Where all that loving and all that dying looked so much more noble
So much more lasting, but now he's broken, he's falling down
Chasing a yeti monster into unknown places
Should his soul wake in heaven, would he not be satisfied then?
I should say not, for he'd look down up on the purgatory and see so many who fell only a step lower than he
He'd see the feast for gods, and he'd watch the mandatory servitude of a thousand angels and miss it
Miss feeling helpless and hopeless, because only in those feelings did he feel something at all
It'd be all too good for him, so much beauty, so much genteel and perfect natures,
With imagined rose colored cheeks ashamed to look their God in the eye, like infants he'd be, they'd all be
But in infancy he knew not anything,
Only through aging, and trials and tribulations did he value the warmth of placid calamity
Only in being without love was love so important
So in his life and his death the loving man would go on being what he was a man
Flawed and all, paddling away in his canoe, down a stream of fiction
Of actions and consequences, the fish of the tribulations dancing and making ripples in the never still waters
Rapids attacking, and threatening to overcome him, and he struck with fear,
Struck with absolute fright and remorse,
Only when the waters softened, and the chaos shrink would he be smiling again, and impatient for more
He thrived on chaos, he loved his pain, almost as much as his pleasure
for he had nothing to measure the other by without the other by his side
And by and by the winter comes, the seasons change, and the man makes a son
and he shapes and he molds and he builds him to be a citizen of earth to love and be free,
To take and to train his own child someday, to love and be loved, and be humbled through trials and pain
So he loved and he died and all happened thoroughly without a hitch,
Even when his eyes flickered and waved their farewells,
His love was still sticking around in the air that surrounds.