Perfection is too damned a thing to desire.
So, I pen epithets that lack adjectives and
archive poems that describe both
the intangible and unnatural.
For what I have known,
no man can translate or comprehend.
How Earth and heaven and sea and Hestia
have congealed into one being.
I knew you,
when thoughts were free
as gazelles on the Serengeti
and love was reserved for mothers and toys.
But, who can know the depth of the deep?
If I could feel lightning in my hand and go unscathed
would it still be as regal in the night sky?
You are both the damned and the desired.
And I am undone by the mystery of it all.
To love the ethereal is to touch the face of God,
if only for a moment.
Poetry Is Black 