death of beauty.

I hear the whispers,
cathartic voices murmur,
the feminine groan,
destruction,
home after home.

You respond to faces
that burden in the rain,
mouths that accentuate
trepid composition.

Are you the men,
the men that beseech
ownership
of the silent Virgin reign ?

O', Come to your glory,
Come riding with fury.

I ask of you
this once,
have we no life
other than this?

Is it not just me
who speaks
beautiful poetry
and reads,
through the minds
of trees,
and dances
on grassy plains,
awaiting the
Mother to come ?

It is everywhere,
Goddess decay,
we drink poison,
and let out fervor,
as our shadows
gently skip
echo beneath echo,
tortured limbs swelling
with water.

The ocean will
eat us alive,
and these moments
will shelter us
through storm and disdain,
where the sky
breaks,
split-
tiny particles,
we become
winds,
branches,
ashes,
death...
be this, beauty?