the power of love

the black smoke rising out of the air, like a phoenix dying: then the shadow makes a grab for life; hearken to that cry, the bleak lie of living within tainted air blemished with a touch of midas, then the old gods grew strong, myth became legend, then truth. we bow to these holy temples without having to acknowledge that the art has long been lost - we're still trying to play catch up. it's long past the hour of fortune, but gold slides off the hands of an usurper who is unable to knock out a few good fellows - then the shadow of midas gave a strangled cry: and to what do i owe this pleasure? except i had shut off my ears to listening, that constant fakeness clings on to skin. wet, sweat, pours down like a valley able to escapte death. then those shadows began to come after: the ones you thought buried, the ones that still shine a light at the end of a tunnel, the whimsical ones they all appeared to arise out of thin air, like the black phoenix whose dead eyes try to convey a message: i thought i could hear it from just yesterday when she was the sun, her flaming licking feathers bursting in perfume and enticement. no one could take their eyes off this excitement! then the dismal rattle of a rope wound too tight; it wrapped it's body all around the heart, a squeeze and tighter coils, a figment, a lost memory both found each other in the tunnel a train is heard coming then the explosion of life. i heard her no more. this pretending, play acting of what used to be - that anything could actually change. it wasn't the golden sun becoming a disappointment, it wasn't the dead sun no longer able to spread her wonder - just the belief that phoenix lived forever. they don't cook dumb birds these days; that standard must be the next new in thing, the buzz in the town the buzz of flies still knocking the wind off your lungs. it's more serious than that. an absolute faith in passion rubbing off the dead bird's shoulder, an absolute poison drank in one gulp - and the absolute logical turned to yammer away that life isn't fair. that it was rudely awaken from a really nice dream when the blockheads and sharp nails didn't always have to clash. logic by the ground suddenly splitting, a sink hole home to passion still making sense of the blue moon tied around the neck of a bitter green sun. both bleating away like sorrow with an understanding, a key introduces herself. to nod, to affirm, to be with sorrow flying, set free to logic's ruin. why did sorrow go? and felt pangs of anguish. i do not understand this. it is illogical, whereby passion whispered, and i am not always poison to the beast insisting i comply? bent, surrender. willow flings her branches towards the hateful sky. i'll burn, then the willow tree went up in fire, cooled down a blackened trunk with skeletons all around - with heels tucked in to wet soil wanting to crumble; thick skin, impervious the logical gods threw their gauntlets down: fed passion filled with riddles and lies, logic became her shield - i've love you forever. the false sun, the ridiculous cat jumping over the wall thinking it was a dog - and all this i just took along with the dead charred trunk: logic became bent, flexible, like a willow who gave everything up because. because a foreign heart, a dead bird's mind had fused in one sick green sun unable to take the blueness off - the connection last even when the string got burnt right through you could see through it, but you cannot see through love. and love became the meaning. where every fake sun, burnt used up bird gets tossed to the cat willing to catch and sit on the wall. happily chewing on every lie that took up all this s p a c e .