Sex.

If only the subtractions of various leeches; in forms even more varied than leeches - was possible, that would be sufficient to neutralize conceptions that embarrass one’s speech and blaze one’s loins. There’s a certain rule that most opinions followed invariably, and invariably bent by some, and by me – I would be pleasured. When one feels excitement, condemnation tails along, when one grasps joy, it is wrenched out, leaving scars that aren’t forgotten too easily. Tired minds resolve to stealthy actions, and from stealthy actions, springs guilt more heavy than tireless stone, more expanding than ink in a puddle of clear water.

When one thinks of union, one sheepishly discards the thought as undeserving, which stems from a potent yearning, a muffled scream. A coward would do better to dismiss the thought as foreign and supply substitutes to his mind, in hope that he hasn’t sinned. But, when one thinks of a thought to be thought, one finds that the thought is already thought of.

What makes this barrier appear on a human mind is not the conscience, but a mutilated perception, which is sowed and heavily enriched by endearing adults in some form of sullen advice, in breathless whispers and low, warning voices. But one finds that even through the thick shell that was gradually self-built, the thought remains – ever existent, ever alive, and ever thriving.

To what sensitivity this thought is produced is, to an obvious extent, a link to one’s knowledge of oneself. A description of oneself is easily attainable to what one is attracted to. Sexual taste reflects heavily on what principles one is lead by and to what extent those principles are upheld, and, if they are of sufficient reasoning - or not. To be aroused by multiple, or rather any link to sex in context of conversation or sight; proves one to be a false-saint, one who rummages sexual heights to loot a short time of acknowledging self-importance and self-respect.

When one is attracted to the pinnacle of adoration of one’s own principles reflected in another's presence that is the guiltless pleasure of a merriment that justifies itself – of its cause, of its action, of its peak.

For such a noble act of self-salutation: of two individuals cheering their own ego, their own spirit, for such an act to be tossed in the revolting and conflicting ideologies that cancel it’s purpose, and hold dear only the steps to creation – is to be given naught but cold indifference. And like ink, such ideologies are filthy and hasten in spreading.

Sex and sexuality are intensely debated, those discussions that include frequent cupping of one’s groin in a suspicious fear of one’s thoughts revealed, and also include two sides that are most common, most found, and most dangerous: one which opposes sex for pleasure, which condemns the act as unholy and justifies its stand referring to animals which mate only for the continuation of species, and the other which promotes it without respect, whose reason leans safely on human desires, that reduce humans to copulating animals which by law are entitled to find pleasure and find joy, and find one’s purpose through the sole act of seeking happiness – the seeking glorified and made man’s only reason for existence.

Morality is dependant of existence, and existence is celebrated by joy. A morality preaching otherwise is a failed code. Sex, therefore, is neither a stern necessity nor a yearly gift. It is a product of love for oneself and a complimentary love for another, regardless of gender or age or any of the unimportant veils that some have created. It is action that is propelled by unbounded attachment to one’s importance and one’s self. It is a union of two bodies to fulfill not just physical desires but also intellectual workings that require each other. It is foolish to denounce it, to disregard it, to take it lightly.

~ Ielfphil Raven.

Wish.

At fleeting winds, did,
Clear somewhat, angry,
Veils, fluttering, at touch,
Attempt revoked, in deep want,
Understand, yours such qualm.
Open heart, a blinding truth,
Shut thyself, better liked,
But once rejoiced, craving,
Wisdom, for mine ending.

~ IelfphilRaven.

Dealings.

For smiles retain irk,
In faces, suddenly pressured.

String doings around great,
Effort for, to startle,
Entertain, boats of fools,
And sing, bleaching intelligence,
To such desperateness, unknown,
Skinning, scarily into stone.

And pointless, laugh,
A mist, fanning into minds,
The smoke, blurring points,
Talk, idle, hints rejoice,
Swirling into an understanding,
Forgotten, time's theft.

If that was, petty churlishness,
How incredulously, grudging sounds,
If worry entwines widely,
With gaining dislike,
How much time, helplessly,
Shall a stroke, distress?

Only shall right flow,
Run truth, spreading wisely.

~ Ielfphil Raven.

Morning.

Full many a glorious morning have I seen,
Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride,
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:
Even so my sun one early morn did shine
With all-triumphant splendor on my brow;
But, out alack, he was but one hour mine,
The region cloud hath masked him from me now.
Yet him for this my love no white disdaineth;
Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.

~ Rahul.

A Part Seperate.

If from the forthcoming past,
I changed, Halved by self, remained,
Would feel filled brimming,
Rather is stolen, or first empty,
Breathing expect and flowing lies,
Dripping an authority false,
Over strained stained bond,
Perception veiling heart,
Of self, only consolation,
Twice unexpected, does,
Relieve glowing faintly,
Recognition, Plead, Forgive.

~ Ielfphil Raven.

She Walks In Beauty.

She walks in Beauty, like the night,
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that's best of dark and bright,
Meet in her aspect and her eyes,
Thus mellowed to that tender light,
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace,
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

~ Rahul.

Shifting Moments.

Tomorrow shall become shapely,
But today, grainy, through,
Which seeps forth expectation,
Greatly hued of anticipation,
Being interrupted, being transcendent.

Minds create, sewing dreams,
Where sweetness swathes surrealism,
Even if, together,
That which it drains,
Is itself, tasting bitter.

Goes creativity, blooming unease,
Sprouts a certainness,
Ever so close, if closeness to,
What becomes and became,
In all, differently aching.

The intake inked, spreads,
Blackening what remains,
Peculiarly a stemming affirmation,
Soaking it, adding grays,
A gray game, undecided.

Faithfulness complimenting forwardly,
A repetition of chains clinging,
Sharply they conquer,
If only wielded, converged,
Hope, greatly at stake.

~ Ielfphil Raven.