It’s something we do and something we don’t.
It’s in the sound of the stars and the rustle of the boat.
It’s dramatically ambiguous and frivolously bright.
It’s the beat of the shore streaming across the night.
How vague could I be?
How dark and discreet?
How painfully pitiful?
How serendipitously incomplete?
How familiar, it may seem, the fragrance of the flower,
Yet uncannily forgotten, beneath the yellow star.
Have pity on thy master, Have pity on thy slave,
Because the righteous, that I know, shall never behave.
Behold this beauty, in all her rage,
Behold this tempest, behold the sage.
Beaten by misery, torment and pain,
Beckoned to rule over and over, forever, once again.