curated absurity

love is eyes with lenses;
a soul hanging barefoot
in thin clouds.
love is air tangled in high grass;
the lights flickering like champagne,
winter stars, capable of healing,
of blood, of divination.

dark spots hidden in curated absurdity,
but in it witnessed, love becomes instead
what we're forced to place faith into.

and as we march and live noisily and drunkenly,
slinging our hearts through sensual windows,
laying on damp concrete, divested and feeble by a godless world,
we leave accidental footsteps, alienated,
but beautifully formed, marching collectively
towards some high event in a brilliantly overwelming sky.