The Stone's Curse, The Blue Flower's Cure

An Homage to Novalis.

None know truly what is this thing called life,
A thing that must be felt rather than thought.
Hov’ring, the soul ‘pon the edge of a knife,
’Twixt that which one does and that which one ought.

At times the ought be written in the book,
Yet the heart seeks paths written in star-lore.
Searching for touch, taste, the thrill of a look,
Whilst the weight of stone-law would freeze the core.

A thousand thou shalt not’s impress the mind.
Lo! The Soul murmurs not, tired is she,
Of so many words that would twist and bind.
Ever does she yearn for love's ecstasy.

O didst those rocks cry out ‘neath the chisel,
And curse man that he should disturb their rest?
’Pon faceless faces carved jot and tittle,
Who felt not the pulsing star in his chest.

Felt not the rhythm of starlings in flight,
Nor the Virgin’s sorrows in a rain show’r.
Felt not the longing of the quiet night,
Or searched not the heav’ns for a pale-blue flow'r.