TheLegendsLeague | Bryan Espiritu

I’m no pro on love, but I know that sometimes our hearts aren’t whole enough to beat past a breath or bleed half a pint to make us see past our minds… and how they blur us. My visions of love may be somewhat Mariah. Maybe they’re too high, or maybe psychotic. Maybe erroneous, erogenous logic that I’m just too sensitive about. But they are my visions just as much as every schizophrenic incident had been. They’re my visions like every schizophrenic incident I’ve seen, and the fear I have of not getting to them is deserting. It’s water in the sand… too far fetched. I’d carry a pail to a hill for a Jill. And all the way back to be Jack for her thrills and fall for her. But these visions of love seem to be fairy’s tales. A pixie’s dust for a lust too tricky or misled trust run amok too thick. She must always think I regress. I must not blink too frequently as to be sure that I don’t miss anything about these visions of love and other strange things. Or maybe I should blink so much more often so I can see the darkness behind blinding yourself by ideas of true magic. I wear my heart on a sleeve that carries up it no tricks. I wear a heart that has been broken by names, bones and sticks for it believed the power of a simple poem. That “Names will never hurt me”. I believed, and was crippled when I wrote, “This love is not the air beneath my feet, but the reason I am afloat”. And it echoed in a room where nobody had ever been broken. Where had the vision of love gone that I had so fondly dreamt of and spoken? “Hello Love, we haven’t met before.”. And Love replied, “If ever we part, you will regret me more than having never just said to me, ‘Hello’, you fool”. An unstirred pot makes for poorly flavored stews. I’ve walked miles in the shoes of my expectations and have arrived at nothing but hot water and a scalded hope. I would sooner be the weight to a fallen rope than continue to search for a vision I’ve had since I were a young boy that just seems to elude. Rejoice to the news of a noose and its muse. I will loosen the tie from the bow of an unaimed cherub. He will miss with an arrow, his target too careless, and left bleeding. I will reveal whole hearted – “Love, come over here and finish what you’ve started”. I am seeing that Love is rare, so when it’s real, be there. But within it’s good lays an evil, devilish touch so tainted it would leave a masterpiece painting, easel and brush, undone. It’s been a disguise. Amongst barbie dolls and ballsy guys, I am doing all I Ken to validate having a Malibu Miss. Give her a rum and a kiss, thumb to the part where her hips and her upper thigh are joined and hope for the best. I regress, I regress. Yes, my visions, my visions. I’ve had a vision of love that had carved from a stone block, a Missis with no name who had honed, locked and aimed her passion towards the apple of my tear coated eye. A man who cries is bleeding through tears. I’ve bled this heart dry over numerous years, humorous break-ups, raised glasses and Cheers’d to being single again. Then Love again. Then searching for why my visions were unreal. It’s like I mustn’t see what I cannot feel, but I look for love like I hunt for a heart to give it back to. No returns here, only exchanges so there’s something for us both to keep. I am maimed like my “Happily Ever After” was weak and I returned from the dark but didn’t keep my receipt. It’s a shame… that if love is blind, I need not these visions. I trust that if love is blind, I need these visions even more. For if Love cannot see it, then I must. If nothing is certain, at least of this, I am sure. From a vision to something to touch. From tainted to something re:stored.

“Re:Vision to Love”
- written by Bryan Espiritu.
From a book I am currently working on entitled, “The Cynic Route”.