The Pedestal

the passing of so much time has done so much to me. has done so little to us. and it is amazing to me that so much terror could dwell in such a small framed man as myself feet frozen on a pond of illness and this agonizing shawl does nothing to warm me. gloating madness like a rainbow in mid-winter and I cannot write to you of conventional passion because in the blackness surrounding it is not a reality for me. not even in memory (unremembered and foregone) is that even of slightest possibility harkening back to dredge the past serves only to muddy it as all kingdoms fall (eventually) to their betters (regardless of their motives and manners) the forcing of tattoo's on wrists sleek genocide boiling waterfalls of persecution alas, those that fall victim have the luxury of feeling: sadness, loss, pain; the despair of imprisonment with its company to share to unify even in death they are not alone. perfection does not exist not in the assimilation of man to God, nor in the relational spirit of man and woman. exquisitness is reserved for the pedastal of deity's upon their thrones but as I seek my eyes about it draws evidence that even God has no persuasion to the perfect.