When I speak
I want it to be as if the gates of hell hath opened
Releasing a fire deep from its heart
Consuming all repose
Claiming all its kin
Only that which is pure from heaven
Or blessed there of
Remains
When I write
I want it to be as if the first to ever etch a form of meaning for another to comprehend
Guided my hand
Allowing only truth to take shape
Allowing all that is real to transcend time
Not that my name live forever (“if it did I would not complain.” the flesh speaks.)
That which is Art remain.
When I love
Let it be the only word needed
©Christopher F. Brown 2013
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