Roses have an eye at the center of their petals. they crane their elegant stems to ogle me as I am yanked along by the leash of a jackal, scrabbling and foaming at the mouth. We stumble into moonlit shadows. Aloe leaf scrapes soft cornea. Out of my blooming socket comes a warm and red droplet. With my hand against the right half of my face I howl and run
Don't be disheartened by the lack of response from each these hyped and none observant. They know not what their looking at.
Couldn't bare to brave a brain cell to note. A beauty as written, which you've done so.
They've no temple to caress, no care to imagine. No spirit to enjoy.
They're dead and unheard. So it,him,her,them,they are their masters.
So don't let them tire your inner voice. Sing to the hills, for they are listening.