Inside Out

The face is still, the personhood a mask and from outside, there is no door. The world slows down, its voice as if a worn down tape devoid of presence, drifting, lost in its pursuit of time; it is a galaxy of strangeness where a breath of lonesome melancholy would relieve, but still the wind forgets. How taciturn, outside, how churning is the turmoil from within. How resolute, the longing of the sperm to tear into the heart and liberate its glory or its agony, its oratorio to God, its plaintive hope for love. How curious indeed, upon its evanescent throne is love, still innocent of thrusting light, still hopelessly naive before the pounding hooves that heroes ride; how frangible its shell! Millenia preserve their heroes very well, although their colors bleed upon the pages that we read, upon our inner souls when we allow them, though the face, yes most certainly the face, is cold and still. ~