Fierce whips of love light
Dance in front of my eyes
Opera of our souls
Slow majesty curtain of the ******
Can never bleed and stain our pure hearts

We approach people admiring sunsets
Ignorant of their beings
We love them like statues moving
Slow, physical, vivid bodies

What am I?
But a wounded storm
Slow, cold winds of apathy
Yet, I boast in having the heart of an eagle
Running through America’s screaming woods of our time