Your monuments to yourselves do
you no justice. They are a
paltry proxy for what lies
buried beneath the cool surface
of your alabaster shell.
Depthless discourse cannot shroud
the spectres of that which masquerades
as truth in this place that bears no
resemblance to anything so
pure as that which you cloak
in postures of such perfection.
Don’t you know we are not the
creator nor judge of beauty,
only it’s singer of songs, praising
what we are blessed enough to find
before us and inside us, not
in a hothouse garden of
blooming bodies, flawless in their
perennial performance of all that
is considered good and worthy.
Save those flowers for the tombs of
those whose indifference gives them
purpose. Give to the living your
weak and warty wounds and see
what blossoms can grow in the
fertile, yielding soil of your own
gasping authenticity.
No comments:
Post a Comment