The Cure

The cure for love, men, passions inflamed,
Because passions are the poisons of life,
Is a drop from the well of eternity. Allow me:
Mouth-like, the abyss, whose lips
Quiver duly, twin-glossed necessities
Embracing all, and few. No locks
Ring the mossy edges, the ledges lack
Inscription: not a gem, no beauty, only
Diamond-forged and sharp, pressing,
Cold. The steady drip of lust
Falls off there, each globule
Becomes the empty globe, no form is left
Collapsed into no thing: peerless windows
Without walls, doors in the absence
Of entrance. The implosion of the haze
Hangs over broken irradiations, not
A golden light imbued with darkness,
Not even a whisper. Drink that peace
Men, serenity beyond begging,
Illumination and illusion, selfless self.