First, I strive for beauty I wait for the bell to chime the lightning to strike
Today, it seems, the skies are clear those chimes of midnight are silenced they boycott my breath heap ash on the urgency of ringing and leave me dizzy in my decline.
But if the past truly is prologue it will all come round again.
Language will make its magic. Sweetness will ooze from the open wound of my heart.
There will be words in the order and rhythm in which they were intended.