Oh, she is the ultimate mystery, is she my ultimate question. I could be blind and deaf, and her presence would still my heart , my mind, by no more than her entering a room. Her words, the words of a poet prolific in her voice, the voice of an angel. All derived from the body of some Goddess unknown to me, yet a Goddess nonetheless. Her wit, nay, her intellect shining bright in a storm of mediocrity like none other, and when she moves against me, words can not justify the way she makes me feel; the way she made me feel. I miss her like sleep and I need her like air. This sublime curiosity, that is her.
Yet now she is gone, hidden beneath six feet of pure white snow, another six of frozen ground. Angels wept, Death whispered ‘Live now, for I am coming’, and the devil laughed at some unseen joke known only to herself. Adam’s rib taken from me, by me. My fist, the fist of God, and her life my sacrifice to the unseen foul voices crying within the beast of my mind; escaping via my hand. This fragile thing called life, little more than a blink in my reality; a bloody stone lifeless in my fist tells me so.
All beauty has to die.
Click on the butterfly skull, Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds at The Royal Albert Hall lays within.
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