About

Dull nights tend to breed poetry. Unfortunately, I am victim of no such demon which drives out imagination and doles out doleful smiles. On this sharp night, every star gleams and every light in the city is silent, doused like a candle wick submerged in melted wax, leaving merely a thin stream of smoke behind, and no pumping pistons disturb the pristine state of the streets, yet poetry is not produced.

I'm not a superstitious fellow but it is my belief that poetry sometimes occurs naturally in the world. Interlaced with the murky filth that is the alarm clock and the dark, snowy slush of the streets and the strings which jerk and jive with the shifting tide of society are tiny gems of poetic brilliance, unparalleled, that is the diamond, the sky and the often regretted ambivalence of love which may or may not be true.

Foolishly, and to no avail, I attempted to capture the poetry of two lovers in a poem of my own. It was at that point that I realized it was best to let the things which are beautiful on their own remain untouched instead of being cheapened by the words of a two-bit poet (and we all are).

So to my friend and his lover, I say only that I love both of you dearly and I ask only that you continue to be the true artists which the world deserves.