In the subtle undercurrents in the blood of my own soul
In the petty contradictions and the heat.
In the black morass of darkness, black as pitch and dark as
coal,
Sits a tiny flower mellow, soft and sweet.
I do not admit its presence, speak to none of its allure
Do not advertise the bluest eyes that shine.
In the secret room left hidden, isolated and reserved
Emanates sensation of a different kind.
Gently stroking the perception of my feeble, mortal eyes,
Deeply pregnant with a passion out of reach.
Causing me to live a life fraught with the constant
compromise,
You are right here yet I can’t pull you to me.
Content I must remain to have an angel floating somewhere
Just outside the grasp of these poor stain’ed hands,
From the shadow I will see you, burned upon my waking eyes
and
Through the pain and anger I will understand.
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