Tuesday, August 29, 2006

When Two Equals One

Given that, a = b
It ensues that, a² = a b
Hence also, a² - b² = ab - b²
Clearly, (a + b) (a - b) = 2b (a - b)
(a + b) (a - b) = b (a - b)
Divide both sides by (a - b), they cancel each other out...
Then, (a + b) = b
And since a = b, then logically (a + a) = a
Restated, 2a = a
Dividing by "a", 2 = a/a
Therefore 2 = 1

Where is the error? Is there an error? What is the error?

Sunday, August 27, 2006

Touch Me (Touched by You)

Were you here... I could measure the soft of thy skin with but one finger. Touch conveys thoughts as smooth as velvet ~ gently drifting... into the mind. Each stroke, reminiscent of becoming lovers ~ and our place in all time. Touched. We make memories... As ever skin will do. As ever touch will do.

My body aches to hold you close, My heart beats pure and fast. I embrace the feel of your sweet taste, To have you here again... at last! As ever I shall do. As ever you will do.

Fingers caress, as our passions rise... The love we make shines brightly, softly through our eyes. Deep within, each becomes lost in the other's charms, And the place my heart desires is the comfort of your arms. As ever we could do. As ever we should do.

Touch me, remind me of who I want to be. Touch me, remind me of who I can be. Touch me, remind me of who I am. The matching of your hand in mine comforts the Spirit, dear (wo)man. As ever Spirits should do. As ever our Love will do.

The Rose as Art?

Poetry is the written evidence of life. If our life is burning well, poetry is the flame, not the ash. Poetry is a mans' rebellion against being what he is not. Poetry surrounds us everywhere. But placing it on paper is (alas) not so easy as the reading of it. Poetry is the music of one's soul ~ above all, the symphony of great and feeling souls. Poetry is the art of substantiating shadows. I do not create poetry, I create myself. For the reader, the poems are but one pathway towards me...
The Rose as Art
In my hand I bear a rose, soft and red, single yet whole.
In a field of flowers I stand, beneath skies of vivid hues.
Sweet air I breathe, I breathe again.
Embraced I am by waves of color, by waves Of light.
My eyes behold In all its beauty, a lone blossom 'cross the field.
A splash of lips, amid endless seas of tears.
Within my mind Is born a thought, made fertile by desire.
Forsake but which? Partake of which?
This rose I bear? Or that which tempts?
I fear that should I forsake this rose, so rare, so fine.
For another I'd find Its petals frayed, stained, withered and dry.