mercy belongs to the angel in man, the supple grace of the hesitation of flaming scythe, and sometimes it stops below the chin only to regret the decision, but this is the problem with mercy, which delegates weakness upon the moral character to make it all the more principled.

and love is an allegation of desire pressed into the servitude of a miasmia of kaleidescope emotions, love, the old wine bottle afloat on the seas yearning to deliver its curled letter in the swirls of ocean currents proclaiming the windy path we must travel sometimes to find each others hand that delivers words from deep with inside the vessel.

and justice is a condition of judgement, a balance kept by the weighing of certain scales kept uncognizantly within the market of the soul.

and madness is wisdom, madness can be genius, but madness is not insanity.

oh tilted earth swimming on its axis, the angels wept the other day when you tried to call it down from its revolutions, when you tried to order ellipses into square circles without the Zen mentality that moves like delicate cherry blossoms slightly undulating in the emerald breeze.

oh ancient harmonies that lock repletion with a silver key, where does the repose of your locks build prisons and where do your prisons build freedom within themselves like an archaic paradox that says the least free are the most free?

heaven-sent articles etched into sand with a yew branch, learn to listen and to see, learn to care for the ancient melodies, and learn to love something as simple as an old oak tree.