Obsidian martyrdom

(Elven ears answer: have you never read poetry before, accuser? Never had a muse? Does that make you jealous, too? Never mind you, accuse, accuse!)

(More seriously, tho:

A stream passed by, grey of concrete, passive in rounded suburban waves of streets, sits on a fence, the heart of a bird, in the chaotic engine of sunken melbourne, walking, a butterfly dances, it plays in flight:

And suddenly I know you but not, like finding god, throw down the life, and, blessed, write your portrait, as I graffiti the natural world in rainbows, or waves of your beauty amid streams of poesy, as suburbia returns to nature, brought back by the obsidian goddess

I’ve heard it said you’re twisted, and I agree, but to me, they talk in suburban cookie cutter dreams, the twined roots bear the fruit of the tree, and the goddess bears me, my heart, and her beauty, on my quest-

I’ll find the end of Melbourne, I’ll jump from its edge, demarcate my fall with the sharp claws of wings, my wild fantasy, my fucked up head, my twisted black rainbow, tho lost,

Find me, goddess:

(is how does one define love?