It is easy to be forgotten if you try
your best to be remembered. For in spite
of popular belief, you are, and if popularity
is remembered, where then is the hero?
Therein lies a symmetrical synergy oft
A stage where mask meets master;
a face upon which veneers of sadness
are painted by tears, covering lips
inflected, all hidden in the burly
of the beard.
Where is the rose, if not for her thorns
to mar, prick and imprint her beauty?
That beauty, which cannot perceive itself...
It is only an extended and spurious
truth of being perceived.
Semi-outwardly furled petals
like pseudo-ebbing silken slates;
an arch relished as the breast
of women, a sexual conspiracy
innate in fetishes.
Perhaps... It is a kiss blown by the wind,
unable to consume itself.
An unclasped pearl still rolling on
the shoulders of long dead soldiers -
a great escape of treasure still hidden,
the burden of lives with incomplete
Artemis' beauty, is it then timeless?
Or, like Prometheus, is it bound to be
disemboweled by its overshadowed
A silhouette guided by the shade
of vapours in Paris' gutters, willfully pacing
to and fro the nature of filth, as if plagued
by indecision; worth...less.
Perhaps... The wind doesn't sway blades;
instead, it pushes grass around.
A grade school bully molesting dreams
by occupying the time of their owners -
secretly habouring many of his own
And what of the dancing trees?
Are they not tickled by the dryads
imbued with the magic of a forest's
A staff of time; wooden branch
hollowed by grandfather time's
chimes - metamorphosed poetry
turning words into bitter treats.
All in extension, unable to kiss itself,
or prick itself, or even recoil itself;
this is the synergy that necessitates love,
for beauty is a thing only believed in