white rose blooming
in winter as always,
in winter -- only:
the white rose blossom...
her fair skin tumbling...
timeless,
suspended,
a feather aloft
entangled limbs
hanging on for Dear Life.
it happens in a moment
when blood doesn't hasten
to boil and dance...
the fireplace crackling, laughing...
new orbits slow as they converge
while seconds linger and thicken.
nails divot into skin perfectly,
a hard three iron to the green in two...
quick: flip onto your back'n
i'll climb aboard the jungle gym,
stare into those pale blue orbs
samurai slashing through possibility,
now stark, bare, naked.
we fall back, sighing,
to take firm hold
of limbs, once again.
i, i, i
- steven
- "Seeing that before long I must confront humanity with the most difficult demand ever made of it, it seems indispensable to me to say who I am. Really, one should know it, for I have not left myself "without testimony." But the disproportion between the greatness of my task and the smallness of my contemporaries has found expression in the fact that one has neither heard nor even seen me. I live on my own credit; is it perhaps a mere prejudice that I live? ... I need only to speak with one of the "educated" who come to the Upper Engadine for the summer, and I am convinced that I do not live ... Under these circumstances I have a duty against which my habits, even more the pride of my instincts, revolt at bottom, namely, to say: Hear me! For I am such and such a person. Above all, do not mistake me for someone else!" - Nietzsche, Ecce Homo
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