I sometimes wonder at the magic my ancestors used,
And now as it’s flowing through my veins,
I no longer wonder why they would attribute,
Such qualities to the brew of honey.

It is not the warmth of the brew itself,
The heat within stirring blood,
Or the arousal that follows a step behind.
While such magic is potent in its own right,
The composer worships another mistress.

Mine is a magic tainted by love,
It lessens the weight of my poetry,
For how could I express what I feel?
Humbling, is what it is,
To know what you cannot express,
To be loved and to love,
Equally and unquestionably,
What kind of meaning has certainty?

A raving poet,
Madly drunk,
Or a mad drunk,
Raving and poetic?
Perhaps dusional,
Confusing one with the other.
But there is something of which this rambling madman is certain ~
One thing that he knows is absolute.

His heart beats love,
And his voice tries to speak the beat.


About Fredrik Kayser

Everything is connected.
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3 Responses to Heartbeat

  1. Fredrik Kayser says:

    Haha, I’d imagine both being possible. : )

  2. Andy says:

    Reminds me of that Welsh mountain (whose name currently escapes me ) where it is said that anybody who spends a night up there will return either mad or a poet. Not sure if both is an option.

  3. I really love the “a raving poet, madly drunk, or a mad drunk, raving and poetic” bit, it’s so real and yet (for lack of a better word lol) so ironically poetic :D

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