Through a Glass Darkly

rippling angel breath
floodtide of the gods' will
whipping force of stormcloud's kiss
I want you,
I want you.
Roll of thunder, hear my cry.
Sickened by the sappy, sopping predictability
(oh, alas, the gothic soul)
The death of wit takes its toll
Inspiration conspiring with contentment
-a spur for touch and not for words.
Put the energy into black on white
Would that I could
And purge my chained thoughts
But I like my bonds, you see
-and so honey-coated complacency ensues,
driving forth sharp flashy words-
and distilling to simplicity.




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