Moody Men

Roses do not comfort any soul, always the loneliest flower amongst others never alike, nothing to say, not much ado, nothing to reveal, not much to do, a rose is a rose, any other name any other existence any other of another is still a rose.

We watch this budding flower of morning stun the moon into submission swelling the lids of my eyes shut; I am blind wandering about. How I must appear is of no concern for me or a mirror; I no longer carry one now that I cannot see.

She must be aware somebody is watching her intently; how much I want her not a single bat knows, they rather contain her enjoyment simply for their ecstasy. Crimson rivers float silent boats which pass by me possibly for an eternity; oars are needless and tides never ending for the mystery of being.

Wishing to go back into what cannot be undone we come again to that which we did without the presence of the doer whom did not. This reminds me of someone I desperately attempt to forget, instead the persistence of sorrow's sickness classifies me dead; the tag says so, surely must be correct lest I be a number a telephone cannot catch. Dead on arrival, dead as the dial tone, dead is unbelievable, dead is everything I wished.

What company for thorns shall we discover? A prick doth bring me enjoyment if unnoticed; unfortunately this rose makes the squeamish extraordinary of dumbfounded courage. Retracting for a meeting slightly charming at first I set up a coincidence how chaotic of me I suppose; he waits at the coffee shop by a book store. He never read the entirety of a book before maybe this one will catch his attention, she certainly is full of misunderstandings, perhaps he will be able to decipher the rose which never did quite bloom to the potential of woman; maybe none of us have.

"What is she like?"

"You will be attracted to her."

"Why is that?"

"She's your type...."

"That's all I need to know."

Not much for common worth is necessary for the nature of physics beyond scientific grievance. When you got the hots for somebody the feeling is better than anything; when you got it bad for somebody the feeling is more than mutual, the thread of factual, everything.

"You'll know when you see her...."

"How...."

"She will be wearing white."

Iron clad to onyx is my wife even her lips the mourning of vampires forsaken by daylight; how much I desire a kiss only foretold by the Greek legend of myths, only seen by mystics, only bats will ever feel as I am adrift.

"Flavor of my wishes...."

"Flavor of my desire...."

"Flavor of fire...."

"Flavor of water...."

Two watch, one with his eyes across, the other set on us, I never noticed until thus written.

"You will end my hunger."

"You will end my thirst."

"You will begin the mystery."

"You will begin eternity."

That which never begins to end is no longer a mystery once our appetite is fulfilled; we forget we are liquid for thirst.

Memory is stillness of the cave which she became, how much I want her not even the children of madness will ever know! Bats bathe in her existence as she is the milk of ages, more than zealous for her, more than eager for her presence, the blackness of their night is the light of her formation, the spirals which fall from her dome is the church of no man nor woman as sacrament or deeds of heaven, chocolate crimson is the infatuation of their flight, senses they dramatize for the appearance of a seemingly quintessential life, there she goes again; I want to touch her but bloody hell will not allow.

My allergies evade me....

As my nose is in a fit of breaking vessels; the artificial lighting in the coffee shop dims, halogen lamps above my obvious mistress with her obvious intimacy darkens in awareness for the two caught in pupils of the same attraction.

"Do you like her?"

Stunned by the question he is the answer.

"I am attracted to her."

"Juno.....you do know the apparel of white is more than a color."

"Yes I know."

"You will match her wardrobe?"

"I will be her garment."

Should of known then what I still am not sure if I did know then I am sure I made sure I did not know when it happened.

Forgery is a wicked spell of currents belonging to the sea, gusts of anger bred not from Indra, birthed not from nature, spit out from the despair of the machine.

"Your friend is peculiar...."

Baxter's apprentice without choice of pairing informs me of peculiarity; this of course meant little to me, little to him, little to littleness, larger than this discovery.

"How is that....do tell......"

Looking at me with worry of regret in deepness of intentions which hide from his own intelligence; cannot believe this man is unaware yet we may all be of such an oblivion even for a moment's dismal damnation.

"He is many, so many I cannot count; I am afraid."

"What is there to fear if science is near!"

Blow to the left portion of my abdomen is similar to a tap for a bear; slightly agitative, not enough to become beastly.

"I want you to see it."

"There is no choice for me; why is it you want me to witness the happening?"

"I want you to know which one is him."

An elephant decided my head is not a good chair as the eyes I came to adore caught the green despair of ionic nightmares. Before me I am centered with Juno the brilliance of lucidity, for this sight I am the clarity of awareness; amongst him form numbers of men I am credible of their likeness to the ego which we attempt disguise.

"You are in tears...."

"How could this be...."

"His chemical fluctuation or what you may call emotion is innumerable for us to bottle; we didn't know until it was done."

"What was done?"

"The same to all of you but he had to be first. The reason being this worried you know who the most....."

You know who is the whom we do not want to know; unfortunately we know and we will get to know even less of what we thought we knew until we find out we really did not know.

"For every emotion is a man?"

"Yes......"

Coffee shops with bookstores as neighbors must surely be less bright; neither entices the color white.

I am lost in a kiss; must I lament? I must; I am lamentation of damnation. I am also silence of the feeling I cannot describe unless experienced, even so I will try.

Notably the insatiable satisfying demons of angels the sacred sanctuary between lust and passion never to cross the emotion losing touch of sweet pistils bees doth make honey for hives of energy, shelter for the heart; mmmmmm.......yeah.....the sound of constancy.