Stroke soft the curves Of the forbidden servant, Follow paths of the intention And know not the rose touched Is a petal in a cyclone:
**** the martyr And feed the the dogs, They serve a purpose beyond Your grasp, under the foot Of your heavy needs And spiteful words.
Speak; And the ***** do grasp, They will not let the spirit free When pain cannot be released And the world would be great If we could share beauty like It shares its misery.
**** them softly with pretty works And speak the réflection Inward, There you are, You are what you say after you Do the favor and the world Is owed to you.
Oh pain. Such glorious levels you reach Within the ugliness of reflection, How you see and how you feel Is how you choke and how you Hold, Pain, all that can be remembered Not in the moment, But in a lifetime.