Poor Ladis?

Donna Summer vs Gnaris Barkley: Crazy vs. I feel love

"My problem is not my passions, but my lack of control of them."  Ladis didn't say that, Jack Kerouac did.  But Ladis could understand.  He understood all too well.  He could tell you of her; the simmering one.  He could tell you of the heat that rose merely by her presence.  The energy contained in her laughter.  The heat simmering in her eyes.  The beckoning call, the undertow, the seething desire that seemed to rise from her very pores.  He could tell you of the soft heat emanating from her eyes.  The tender longing that dripped from her lips.  The fierceness of her wit.  He could tell you all.  The moments where worlds ceased to exist, and the one we lived on even stood still, to allow the creation of the world of just the two.  He could tell you of passions gravity that drew the two.  The stolen moments, where love burned so fierce that they were labeled fugitives from a world that despised their glory.  When lips joined in passion, they closed their eyes.  The reason for this was two-fold.  First, and formost, was to savor every sensation of the gift of the other.  The second reason was to blind themselves from the sheer beauty of the moment shared.  They knew their arrogance to walk amongst the gods would someday cause them to be cast from heaven.  But they didn't care.  The same ones that allowed them such elegance would stand in judgment.  Though they stood blameless.  He could tell you.  But eventually the gods caught up with them.  In destruction however, the Phoenix rose from his ashes.  Poor Ladis?  Maybe.  But he was more glorious than ever.

In their pride to bring him low, bloodied and on his knees, Ladis laughed.  "Is that all you got?", he challenged the gods as they did not destroy him.  Defeated, maybe, but destroyed, no.  Perhaps to chide, they continue their cycle of destruction.  It seems as if everyday his is brought low, only to rise again bearing a grin.  Poor Laids?  "Scars are there to remind us that we lived", he would tell you. 

Of her? They had cast them both from the Garden of Eden.  Fear would be a constant companion.  Its quiet whisper would be heard in the dark of night.  Laids?  He yelled at the darkness, and it yelled back.  But exposure to that which we fear most only makes it appear what it really is... a feeble old man behind a curtain.  Nothing more, nothing more.  Poor Ladis?  Life is too short he would tell you.  Poor Ladis?  If he is to die, which we all do, he will make sure to live before he does so.  He at least, would not die with his song still in his throat.