Doubtfulness
When I sit quietly at bay
in dreams and sipping piously my glass of wine
and think of you and our strange love
as skeptic as I ever was
if not considerably more,
since age does not retard your criticism
but rather turns it constantly more critical,
I question everything and is irrevocably doubtful
about life and death, eternity, infinity and holiness
and must revaluate existence thoroughly
and desperately without end
and must arrive eventually at one conclusion:
everything is doubtful, nothing is to be relied on,
nothing is for certain, but for one thing:
the uniqueness of the truth
of that strange love I feel for you.
Poetry by Christian Lanciai
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Written on 2007-05-20 at 19:19
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