I used to write such beautiful things,

About such beautiful things,

On and on would go my enamored rambling,

Like the longest winded songbird on the years first Snowy morning,

My head would spin as I turned to take it all in,

The blur in my eyes as they dart from side to side could lead a Pagan to consider a God,

Each microsecond my eyes could process could’ve been framed and hung in a gallery,

Each with its own placard listing important details, noting the set and setting of each shock across the meat inside my skull,



I used to write such beautiful things,
About such beautiful things,

But a beautiful thing about those beautiful things,

Is that even if you close your eyes and do your best to ignore them,

Or lie to yourself and try to see them as ugly,

They are still there, waiting for you to peel your eyes back open,

And remind you how beautiful,

This whole thing is