There in the field she came to me,
The last of the silver honeybees.
I could see the years worn in her face,
Lost in the dark, one foot in the grave.

She held the ache behind her eyes,
So young to have her throat closed tight.
Poor girl, an orphan, with ribs of steel
Bone cage laced too tight to feel.

Then came the lonesome cosmonaut,
Betwixt the stars, those years he lost;
A nomad’s tale, nor here nor there
Too high up to come down for air.

Celestial darlings, they go round and round,
Dysphoric we hasten the final burnout:
From birth to evanesce, the hedons expire
Would love rot my teeth for afflictions less dire?

Last came the poet, out from the gloam
******* on pennies, and ink soaked through bones.
She gathered her strength and fell from the sky
While friends in high places twinkled goodbye.

Hedons liken to sound.
The hungry cadences wielding that satisfying resolution.
The resolution we seek in between memories
and the spirit of the staircase.
Are we intricate bodies
or are we intricate worlds,
full of all you have ever known.
What is that sound?
I may be defined by my actions
but my actions are defined entanglement.
Some soft note
huddled under a hard and heavy chord.
Then victory comes in the 42nd measure
and is defeated in the next.

All of us can make noise
but nobody can be heard.

Even the altruist is selfish to an ideal,
I want then only to make music.

You are beautiful.

The words whispered without doubt.
Each syllable slipping through smoothly,
as if somehow shaping this statement supports
and supplements its substantiality.

You...are beautiful.

A falling phrase fathering the feeling,
that every fleeting fear has found itself futile and foreign.
Until you find yourself yielding and yearning to yip,
as you did in the yesteryears of youth.

But these words are not spoken with enough clarity.

These words are taken as a compliment meant to leave you blushing.
They are understood as a revelation encountered after you are found to be the victor
of a superficial comparison with those around you.
As if each attractive feature earns you additional points,
with a judge that can be bought with each glance and smile and touch.
As if each insecurity that you feel,
or each person that you think is more alluring,
can somehow subtract from the meaning of the statement.

Your beauty cannot be compared.  

The beauty that you contain cannot be explained
to joking friends when they ask where you fit in on a 10-scale.
You cannot put numbers next to the hope and insight that you so freely give.
There are not enough hedons to quantify it.

You are beautiful.

I will repeat it until you think it echoes off the walls surrounding you.
Until every time you look into a mirror you believe you have x-ray vision,
and you can see the warmth of your soul,
with the clarity of vision that you have granted me.
Until you realize that every smile that appeared,
every laugh that escaped,
and every brief happy dance that was ever done in your presence
was caused by the beauty that rests within you.

You...are beautiful.

Wielding the talent to brighten a day with a single smile,
the power to make all of the worries and doubts in a person's mind disappear
with a single thoughtful statement,
a capacity for selflessness that allows no cynic to doubt your motives,
and the ability to make others realize their own beauty
just by interacting with you.

The world is more beautiful because you are a part of it.

When there is nothing else to get behind
you can always shadow yourself
people tend to do the opposite
getting ahead
or was it letting go
the genuine wild bewilderment
of not being sure of which it is
to some tired existentialist
who says life is subjective
but wont tell you his reasons to live
that he lost in the pocket of a moment
that's got this hole in it
see, this is the way
he's lost so much change
scraping memories away
like quarters for ***** laundry
like toenail clippings after walking up and down Pirsig's mountain
who made right now
sustain the future like some ever-present purpose
amidst a world where going the against the grain
means your going in reverse
in this narrow street
that we've made of reality
by putting all your weight
behind one of two directions

At root,
isn't the aesthetic of symmetry
reason enough to come clean with beauty
who's righteousness is in her allure
The one thing hedons like me
can agree
exists
Of that I am guilty
beyond doubt
beyond reason, where there is seldom just one
beyond justice, where I can do beauty none
at the center
without any edges
where you may hear it calling
right now

God willing, I'll find my own way
down to the rust caverns, down to the dust
and seared calcite, stressed and cleaved,
God willing.

And God willing I will make a trance
of us, a Pan of us, all musics, impromptus
and guile. God willing.

And God willing we will take the rain
in our teeth, shatter on the brink of us,
barrel into the wall of us and bleed laughing.
God willing.

And God willing we will cast the first fist
at the faceless faiths, bent as clay,
that engender the hates of hedons
and lusts that only skins abide.
God willing.

For there is no god, God willing,
that will seek to stem the strides of us,
loose in the hills and running,
loose in the hills and ripping
our flesh in the brambles,
cloven and jagged.