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And hath light ever looked to ye so beautiful?
A wondrous and magnificent euphoria of life ever present,
Or hath not darkness eaten ye very soul and raped thy splendor?
Leaving a beast to crawl upon the throngs of damnation,
No, I think this to be a different creature entirely,
A form of grace personified in emotion's mystique,
Not a minion of life's cruelty and malice,
But the touch of its occasionally kind hand,
For a thousand blasphemies the punishment hath been tenfold,
And for every moment of joy thrice be your suffering,
Why the long face of discontent and displeasure?
For on rarity a gentle glance hath been given thee,
Oh, times of ill and sorrow's pungent fervor be scorned,
For nothing shall be comparable to what here can be achieved,
Did you always think that passion were a fruit not ripened yet?
Or was it the transgressions of a smug b*****d who made it bitter?
Fear not, there is hope yet for the soul in ambivalence,
And not every human drools a slime that is poison to the touch,
Let sirens ring out and the gates of awakening be swung clean,
For on this day of era another has held out a hand of virtue.