I have no explanations,
no theories.
-Fate is a mystery
of death and misery.
Beauty defined it,
a state of mind,
sorrow's kind.
Grief idles in absolutes,
but nothing is certain
except for denial, it's impact -a burden.
Fate handed Beauty the hindrance
of addiction and denial.
Then tossed her into the earth
to wither, then rebirth.
When we rise again,
the poets will be
the first to face East.
Our rising Sun
will rescue us once more.
Creation will flourish
with our vision,
we will have insight
into nature.
The ebbs and flows
of our imaginations
will be free
to paint the earth.
It will become
our canvas
to adorn
as He once did.
Take a wild trip into the unknown,
a peak inside a dreamer's heart.
I'm grateful to have my tongue
to speak of fate and creation.
Creation beyond an earthly thought
conjured up by simple men.
Architects, engineers, and physicists
toil to complete a vision of aimless dreams.
There's something magical
about these men
who bring their dreams to life.
The imagination, the innovation,
of dreams come to life
is sensational to see.
Love notes to myself.
An abstract admirer
creates a secret confidence.
Notes none would speak,
words of love, enchantment.
Everything I wished for,
in paper form.
If he, a paper doll, were authentic
-rather than an extension of myself-
I'd be overflowing with encouragement.