Neither beauty nor grace
or kindness and sweet,
not charm or effort or intention or desire,
no act of will or effect of virtue;
nothing can spell the name of Love.
only time and action,
events unfold
in shapes to complex to be foretold,
in chaos's theory,
with chance and luck,
where weeping in this dungeon
stuck between the iron shafts of light
and the spaces of the night
the stars
which spread across the sky
bespeaking violent infinity.
such lonely beauty
such vast expanse-
a poem typed upon a page
seeks to express this cosmic rage,
and knows that passion and poetry
do not compute
into such terms so small and mute
as tastes and thoughts
in forms filled in
-to rub the lamp
and reveal the djinn-
the savage voice cries to the dark
and lonely void
of this dream we call reality.
you can not weave majic
from threads of
compatibility.
fortune, only, can cast this spell
and save us from this lonesome hell
which greedy in our breast draws breath
till we be silenced by our death.
