There are those who are content with lightning,
And those for whom quaking love is an absolute must.
I am thrashing.
I am deadly.
I have lived some.
But I am neither afflicted nor pained well,
I write, instead, of such fantastic creatures.
Not of their extraordinary diseases.
But of their silhouette dances,
Their clarion noises,
The melody in their walk.
Pull up a stool, watch carefully,
Observe them in natural habitats,
With wide beating chests,
And fine bright colors,
And deadly thirsts.
See the ashes in their footprints,
The breadth of their promises,
The whispers in their thighs.
The electricity behind loving eyes.
Some of us would never know the taste of such sweet trying,
And we are no better than these fine stools here gathered.
Let us pray.