How is it that none of the moments
ever seem to contain enough juice?
I was saying without thinking.
For good measure, I’ll include
winter’s violet fury
so it looks like I’m caring.
Often we can kill by caring,
something nobody wants to own up to,
yet quietly believes.
If only all belief were quiet.
Another moment follows this one
with an empty stomach.
You wouldn’t know
just by looking in its eyes though,
because the eyes show
only adoration in all its lush
and particolored grandeur.
A grandeur by which we can also kill.