A love is clean, it is the status of a mans virtue-
to boldly wear on the lavish stones of roughed chests.
Which spin down mountains, resilient in gait;
pursuing the deepest chasms of the deepest seas.
As the women in the water, below the falls-
will sparkle stains of beauty in their crystal eyes;
kindling in the sunlight, and battling down-
the dark water trance deep in their drowning hearts.
They’re there hiding in the rifts, where dangers play,
waiting to be fed a mound of rock;
from higher grounds of hills, where stone men sit,
looking for the brightest star in the abyss.
So, when the floods pummel down upon their heads,
thrust the rubble rocks from their rooves,
they plummet, drop and smack into the barricades;
miles of water as walls above the woman’s depths.
It is in this, that when men sit on their heights,
they collect the dust, and droppings of birds;
a gross and ugly complexion to display,
but to be washed away, as they, the men,
fall into the pools of woman’s hazard tears-
and bathe in the embrace of fearful insecurities-
that emit hotter gas from immersed, inverted volcano's;
eating and exhaling, in the oceanic valleys.
Oh men, above on your "all seeing" towers,
you are cold to the twilight of the feminine breath,
you are numb to the vibrations that ring through the base-
Of your very life.
Of your very soul.
But the reach of a woman goes higher than mountains of men,
evaporated into the beauty skies.
Until they turn black, and cry,
to pull down and wash the men of sin.
Into the pupil of a woman's bruised, black eyes.
Where they can feel and see.
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