Beauty ardently fights to be unearthed
from its cacophony of silence.
Its bones stretch out, aching with brittle cracks
creaking in the black as they grasp. Nothing.
In lust, their eyes crave and scour the life,
and remain unaware of the neglected time.
For its cries are found in this single question:
Will any soul pause to take notice of mine?
All. And none.
Everyone braggingly seeks to prostitute its embrace.
Seldom, though, do their souls attempt to seek out and cherish its face.
Its screams will always be in harmony,
while its figure erratically in flux:
always shifting. Always construing
to satisfy the frame of their primitive box...
the coffin man has fashioned to house unbridled life,
where impatience are limitations, and immediacy the vice.