~
Black as coal.
Moth or myth?
It helps with the lights out.
And travels by thought.

Cleopatra enters Rome,
Dropping names,
Reciting pagan poetry,
Knocking on forbidden doors.

Nicole sees shadows
Of her former self
Staring back at her,
Rock paper scissors,
The color of three.

Give and take after take
On the burning soil
Of a blurred crusade.

Typewriters
And other assorted weapons
Form white lies and alibis,
Calibrating the dusted variations
Of a caught-on-camera obscura,
It is a dark waltz,
Some small hope still,

Yet there's a comma after still.
~

I see the clouds,
silhouetted by the sun.

I'm told always to look for the silver lining.

It looks more gold to me.

The sun shines brilliantly behind it,
Illuminating the clouds' angelic edges.

Like some kind of optical illusion,
I search the edges.
Old hag, or young woman?
It depends on how one looks at it.

Beauty is in the edges, I think.
The rough,
not-quite-refined aspects of our humanity.

They've yet to be tainted by societal demands.

Humanity is a beautiful thing.
Raw,
Powerful,
Deadly,
Provocative.

Its rawness is its most inspirational aspect, though.
We love rawness.
Polished is dull.
If we know one thing,
It is that no human is ever completely polished.

We all have our blemishes,
Our idiosyncrasies, (as Robin Williams might say in some movie,)
Those are what make us so beautiful,
So lovable.

Our edges,
Illuminated by the undying flame of humanity,
Not in silver,
But in gold.