Beauty

Passions be a curse, If patience be a virtue, The way the thunder claps in time To the sound of the neighbor's celebrations of life Remind me I'm stuck. Here, In a hole of forest green And burgundy, And try as I might, Every time I free Myself from the mud It makes noises, Like an overloaded washer, Before pulling me back down. What sort of life Can one have when Stuck in fall colors, You may ask. "It is this one, The one I live," Will be my answer, "It is this wonder and Magick on the breath of the full moon That I carry inside me Like a crypt; an empty tomb. I show you sparkles And fae, And you ask me what of it. Say, I can claim this Peak for my own, Plant flags for all The times I have ascended it; I call it by name, Like a lover. I practice the divine daily, So that I may see Forest green and Burgundy for what It may be; Such beauty."