of course, beauty
is in the eye
of the beholder. sometimes,
like a pin. others, like
an apple. i tend to be
simple in my aesthete’s appetites
for the floral; they appear
pretty to me and so
i leave it that.
i leave my body,
at that. or,
is that a body of hope,
to persistently seek
escape? we spin
ourselves into sleep.
we salt ourselves to
salivating. we scrub ourselves
numb; crimson, glowing.
what is it to be
Human, other than Fear
and a womb’d wounding?
love is beguiling–is it
ever anything other
than another lever pull,
in attempt to slake our howling
desire?
ah, muttering mind.
what does any of it
matter. i have
addicted myself to my
self, the thoughts
that marble through my
maze’d brain,
amazed.
a flower is a
teacher; quiet down
human. brother son
enemy saint. quiet
down and do not
figure. grow into
your beauty, inhabit
softly your blooming
decay.
zakschafer.com 