There is a queer beauty that seems to find me where I go,
along every solitary river, among every bustle of busy feet, behind every closed door.
A strange purpose exists behind these tears, but I know not what it is.
How does a person describe the curious sense of connection that follows
the sweet sadness of a forgotten, melodious memory that can be no more-
I will always love the scent of your skin;
the dissonant song of bloody revolution that clings to my angry heart
because of an injustice imposed upon mankind-
I will join into this fight with you, because this is the fight I feel I was born to do;
the grating shrill of inharmonic fear plucking from inside
while I hold this naked and vulnerable babe in my arms,
that something or someone may someday try to damage its reverential perfection-
Please don’t cry, everything will be all right.
But when you do, I can wipe your crystal tears from your rose-flushed satin skin-
aren’t you beautiful.
Oh, the enveloping power that these emotions force upon me
is intimidating to hold within myself-
yet the recognition of what matters in this world is realized by my deep understanding
of this queer beauty.
These tears can cry for lonely longing,
because these eyes have also cried out of limitless joy for a love
so large my heart could not contain what it was being offered.
My anger grows from a sense of purpose that makes up the very core of my being,
screaming a dry plea for my attention towards purpose,
out of pride for this sense of empathy and freedom and connection that we call mankind.
I have held new-born life in my tainted arms,
and have been given a gift of sacred purity that will drown in my love.
Such a queer sense of beauty,
but God, isn't glorious?
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