She seems to tiptoe across rainbows
as my world goes into slow motion.
If beauty is a raindrop,
then she is the ocean.
Spirit hears her every prayer,
carried by the air,
like pales of water,
to heaven.
And when they come back down to earth.
I dance. I dance in the thunderstorm. I dance in the wind. I dance under the tornado
she is a quiet hurricane.
the eye of the storm is the peace achieved
by realizing pain
is all there is
so much beauty
in a world
where death is our only master.
Sometimes you have to tell the tiger
how lovely she is
sometimes you have to tell
the lightning
that your glad it strikes
sometimes you have to tell the knife
that the crimson glint of blood
shining in the sun
stolen from your veins
belongs framed on no less brilliant a blade
she is the passing of the moment, she is the bending of time, she is the inevitability of fate
she is creation, and devastation
lover, and mother
the temptress seduced
consuming her hunter
she is spirit and body
a forest of flesh
a sea of soul
we often wonder
why we are born
if we then must die
the answer
is in her eyes
but to see her
is to be struck blind
to all
but the sight
of her memory
in your mind
and then life
is just right
and death
makes sense
again