It is written in words,
Though words can’t express,
And they blare and they
Wash our minds;
Describing that
Which defies description,
That can tear and
Torment a life.
What can drive a man
To his own destruction?
What can raise a man
To his own elation?
What can cause more
Tears than pain?
That bonding force
Which tears apart
Its lucky victims:
And they think that
Words are enough.

Peculiar as it is
To this species of ours,
Most fail to find this perfection:
The perfect disease
Of mind, heart and soul;
The perfect state
Which starts with two victims.
And when that two is halved,
Still there are two
Who are one.

Be it dream or nightmare,
This model we chase
Is a model for
The conjunction of souls:
When two becomes all,
While one remains one,
No model shall be sought
Nor feelings to be fought.

Letting what we live for
Be our driving, rending force:

Victims, only, feel
Every bit of the pain.

Still words don’t . . .