Eyes deep and dark as if linked to the primordial abyss,
It was as if " " could see further than the blank faces of truths and lies
It was as if " " could clearly see what is and what is not.

Voice commanding attention like the horns of heavens army and as soothing as it's zithers, " " lips its succulent strings.
Body as bountiful as the late harvest " " delicacies just as sweet miracles when " " legs part blessing falling from my chin to my feet,ceremony a Thanks giving for this decadent feast.

A self, if I don't help , watering flower blooming how and when ever it sees fit.
Passion like the sun, radiant and all illuminating but tempered by a mind like the moon on a still pond, while it seems grounded it's true home is in the sky amongst the stars.

What are we truly,
Specs of celestial dust.
Kin to sun and stone.

A bow too tightly strung, now shaking, because of a notch and arrow moans like the creeks of wood; quiver as I use your quiver. now release

Building wings of wax all because you know not the beauty of your own plumage.

Slick, Drip, damp,drop, moist.
Thunder jealous of your groans
Lightning, of my strikes.

I once heard that art is most beautiful when imitateing life . I never understood this; imitation infers a falsehood, a lack of authenticity. Art can only be what it is, unapologetically,It can’t build a facade.
I ,the one who is deemed alive, lie habitually to those around me and worse my self.
I am a performer playing the part of least resistance and greatness propitiation. Solitarily contemplating a collective I want to both develop beyond the horizon or envelop in the flames of a star.
conundrums are the base of these self destructive edifice. Best escape is outside of self, either on the wall in the air or on a shelf.  

Now who imitates who,
When One feels most real imitating art?