It is funny
how the world twists and turns,
illusions as if it were meant to be.
Thou our age
shrine cries for the next sunshine connected within thee.
Perhaps it is
disillusioned with grandeur,
for could it
trick from the Gods looking down on me.
For is such
beauty burning deep from within thee,
specifically for me or to be shared amongst three.
An annoyed Sandro Botticelli once
threatened to crash a large rock onto his neighbors roof in retribution
for making too much noise. . . More
I often think about the era in life when death stands still -
some were between suspension and boredom; a place with a new name.