The Never-Ending Storm

If beauty’s a drop, Then you are a storm, Striking the lessers, Their bodies are torn. To show their gray bones, And newspaper heads, They’re all out of news, Because they are dead, to me, You couldn’t be prettier. Any wickedly prettier. I saw god snicker and say you were ugly, And he said it in a way quite smugly. Said your soul will gratefully die in time, Yet not, all but immortal is your face. It’s enough for me to leave and to find, A nice little place to call yours and mine. Yet, he makes you think your features awful Though it’s unlawful, he is only god. I say “Don’t worry baby. You are strong.” You cry and whisper, “I wish you weren’t wrong.” Rocking horses scampering on a cloud, Of tears left over from when you were loud, Ridden by those born from not but water, Rocking across but a puffy red cloud. O Men of glistening, running water, If only you taught her, To not let you fall and by the hard ground, Be slaughtered. Be slaughtered, men of water. Be slaughtered.