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Empire State of Love, poem by Soar

Soar’s interview will be posted on 3/20/14.  Here is another preview of her work. 

One drop of truth on a peak of symbols and virtues,
that’s how she saw from afar the biggest building,
where instants and tourists comprised the dream
of being part of its memory
in the big city of flashes and promises.
She, a well of emotional intents, a wet poem and a scarf in her hand,
valued it differently, while rushing in her own movie
to meet reality – him, or thirty years of awaiting destiny,
nothing to equal such feeling,
she was protecting with all her being,
running, pacing, waiting, reaching out towards a spot
on the top, where they all came for King Kong,
except for her, there for him alone,
his veracity to unfurl,
felt once somewhere in another fate,
a magic she was trying to comprehend
on that platform of lights
like a big screen of romance,
hued in the colours of care, pure and true –
red, white, blue,
where he would comprise the questions of whys
into the answers of hows
and the sensuous silence would define
the ritual of hearts.
“Reality is not made of dreams until you make them real”,
she kept remembering a quote from her own artistry,
ensconcing in tropes her sensitivity,
yet, always positive, like a relentless soldier of love,
sometimes tired of solving the world
with only a few values of gold.
“A long time ago..”, she started in whispers,
with delicate smiles and dewy eyes,
a story unveiled before
about a vision and a little girl
of the same scene she was just living,
déjà vu made out of truth and sheer significances,
bejewelled with moments of awe and beauty,
kept secret for decades, shared only with him,
with an enthusiasm of genuine pulses,
which she kept taming
not to spoil the maturity of such innocent revealing.
“Let’s go, it’s getting dark. You don’t want to miss the Central Park”,
the only Happy End he could append
to a story with no end,
where a rhapsodic scene was honed by prosaic accessories,
needed to keep a balance with reality.
They left from the top of the glow
to descend in the mundane flow
which was more simple to behold,
his hand holding on tight a wet poem, a scarf and a gentle life,
from now on in his path
to cherish and never let go
of what was made for him with unconditional faith;
she, happy and confused, followed his steps
on long streets with no name,
where chocolate mingled with mangos and caramel,
on broad avenues of glimmering stars,
where fame and passers-by swarmed for wonders to find.
It was only late at night,
while she was conceiving dreams to better find the sun,
that he scribbled down on a scrap of paper in her bag
no eloquence, just simple words:
“Some things can’t be explained. They are just meant to be.
You are and always will be very important to me.”
And he hid it with the hope
that she would find it years afterwards
only to confirm in facts
the essence of what they have always been about
from the moment of their “hi” to the depths of their sighs
shared heart to heart
to patch cracks of haunting past or present in rush,
no matter the people, regardless the seasons,
they had been and still remain
a one-of-a-kind braid entwined with precious details,
or just one drop of truth
out of a peak of symbols and virtues.