There is beauty in the calling,
when frantic bird shit is falling, and the
sky is open wide to those who believe this story.
There is beauty in the trace of a spirit crawling, at
one million light years per fucking second
and your eyelids rest mourning.
Lovers that part ignoring the spectacle your vision has just lost this morning.
There is beauty in not knowing the Last bre-
ath before the First hit,
ecstatic nerve-ends embrace the bliss
as the art of anticipation is gone,
like the lovers who counted them wrong.
There is beauty in customising:
red shirt, shit mood identifying,
you and me and everyone’s lying.
Intuition stands as the last great ‘undying’,
so you know all you’ve been un-doing -
that is the beauty of losing.