It's a simple facade
Painted on your face and the rest
Such blind insight into something which
Should completely encompass our emotions
Art without our hearts
Just mash the words on the page
And set it to bake
An unmeasured bread dough without a recipe
Sucking us within to feel it's rhythm
Beating against our skin and forcing ours with its own
Lots in a torrented current of thought
Can this be contained?
Will it be the same thrashing beauty if so?

Penned by my hand on the 1st of Midsummer, in the year 134 MA.