by R. M. Engelhardt
There is no thing said between the moments
Complete & unshaken whose voice remains
For the sake of determination.
Mind you, this is truth without the lethargic seance
Of years, mind you that these are the words of
Hypocrites and players, dreams & fools who
Assume or consume your heart with their "things".
Calculate and transcend the towering dooms of
Love and cherish all faces equally at the mere
Mention of sirens or hollow men.
Beauty is a butterfly up in a tree or quite possibly
The sound of one devoted heart, not a superman
Not a super model not the uncontented cries of
Oversexed rock stars. Time will do quite fine
Without them when time knows what desire
Beholds between the moments & the distance of