Mind,
stabbing at trauma,
so digusting.
But escape,
recognise the trauma of
the earth.
Given such devalued matter
to feed on
its whole existence,
yet
it always makes
something beautiful.
Blooming flowers,
lofty trees,
stormy mountains,
seven seas.
All the beauty in the world
created by
unappreciated benefactors.
Maybe
the repulsing brutes
that taunt me so
will grow into
*something beautiful.

The warmth
your grasp provides to
my hip.
Hair
scattered as vines
growing around one another.
Find your way
through.
Gentle lips landing
spreading passion
down through the delicate bone structure.
Finally
I feel again
your tender touch,
genuine sincerity.
Pure bliss
so secure.
Such a beauty it is,
the time spent
in your presence
bed
arms.
Immeasurable ardour.
Infinite euphoria.
Immense passion,
increasing exponentially.

You speak,
there's a fork in your tongue.

I placed it
as gruesomely as I could,
just as you did with knives
in my back.

Your words,
simple myths,
spewed it
so horribly.

Your words,
mediocre myths,
yet so credible.

They should be recorded,
passed down,
as you pass on;
down.

Hell beckons you.
You remove the fork
and I see your horns
how could you have hidden them before?

Incredible, really.
To think that eyes
are really only windows.
You may see one’s
soul.
And yet
so many *distant eyes.
No soul,
no intention,
nothing to seek.
Where might those eyes take me?
If I went
along on their journey?
Your eyes
their gaze is contagious.
The distance.
Yet *I can still see you.

All that's wanted,
attention.
The loving
beatific
voice
reassuring
(oh so scarce)
virtue.
Acknowledge the various
beauties
that crawl out
as if
all of the
vices
had vanished.