And then told this is why life consists of. 

The beauty is there and also here,
pouring to the ground in a fit of grace. 

Then exists an image to focus,
strangle and bury. 

Wind and leather under salt licked wood. 

The shivers and the ringlets, coarse
reciting numbers. 

A trident to inspect nerve damage. 

Twenty second synapse misplaced, 
the fire dies and a dark room
overflows, a place becomes home
and the lights begin to pale. 

In all these things there exists
a thorn, found ******
torn from its warm host. 

A level of love severed.

It is so lonely here.