I crave nothing but these
soft strokes,
this cloud to rise,
to move... to be moved.
In strands, they come,
they produce nothing but
beauty.
I produce nothing but beauty.
It overwhelms me
how such minuteness--
such harshness--
can become what it is...
Calculated, as it can be,
these angles make me
crave them more.
To produce this purity--
Only from dark can this
whiteness come.
Only from me can this
beauty be.
So hard, it is,
to keep so tense,
so livid,
so sweet,
So as to your body
rock forward
and back...
To make your senses stir.
If only I could dance to my own music.
If only I could breathe my own air.
If only I could show my love...
If only I lived....
