Tom Waits for no man in our humble sphere of influence. Their doomed earthly chariot crosses the heavens silently while the chaos of humanity billows beneath the blanket of atmosphere below. Mujer de Blanca seethes and simmers, glimmering fire light 'tween feathery thighs, leaden thoughts behind fiery eyes, ducking, bobbing, weaving between the dusk and the dawn's casual lies. Shelley surely shoulders burdens that poets of passion most certainly endure, deciphering the beauty of the world through a hawk's trained eye (with a lens focused by love) in spite of the ever-present knowledge of always impending death, and its blinding blur?
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