i see the love, the Love, with all
its faces in all its forms,
and know we are only the jesters
of such places, we are the storms.
about these observations'
indications i have no qualms,
for too many abrasions already
control the wiggle of arms.
there is, on any occasion,
for any reason a case for charms,
and the maker of these merits
shall inherit all bizarre urns.
fire lights, warms and burns,
whether a spirit or mind yearns.