What a beautiful hint of white phosphorus you’ve become,
a whimsical of wonderful, postscript in poised counterpoint,
unbound in an impress of literature bent there are still
ampersand of lovers who’ve never known you somewhere along your point of gravity,
of toadies such-like in statis,
unprivy to the seldom design of a woman womanizing
the little girl inside that she once was-
-and since, tatters have flown with the slightest hint of breeze,
as news articles thrown out with events no longer current,
with the wretched who breathes only to know they will die well.
With the fragmented things fallen away, I’ve become
a mess of things who’ve made a mess of things,
introduced chaos long before Pandora’s box shattered
onto the impenetrable, flattened earth in awestruck carnal,
love as deep and wide as the combustion of being that separates life and death.
Oh how to love this withered tree, I’ve taught you; it is from you I’ve learned to love and see a woman and we are at the center of it all
-from [Leitmotif]
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