The Ruby Shimmers While It Sheds Its Scream

A door opens to a room, leads to a passage, leads to another room, leads to another door; a swindling-dwindling-gazing array of curtains. Leads to an action: footsteps through the door, into a garden of thought, in the room. We are led to the door. Shut the door; behind you.

We are led through the curtains, pink-soft-clothlike, feeling our faces; sensualy. A small bed, enough, fitting: waits for the flower and bee. A bed for roses and nector, wet in the darkness of the night, wet with the sweat of time. Wet with beauty. Shimmering rubies await to bleed. The gift of the door, an entry, leads into a house: beyond the hymn.

We decend into the staircase of our thought and rise to the view of the room. Oh! dripping rubies, we decree your presence. The demeaning moonlight, flows; sometimes blows through the window. The window becomes the gateway to the gods and the breeze that witness the union of the flower and bee.

We dispel our industiral skin. Unbottoned, naked, unmasked; we forget to pretend, wearing the gift of our birth. We storm into each others eyes, devouring ourselves of social engagements; taboos. In the mist of the light of the night, we stand by ourselves in the presence of our dreams.

The bee would die if the flower had no nector. The flower would fill the garden, if the bee would die. The scent of the lust would fill in the garden. But with no one to sense the omnipresent smell, the satin touch, the bleeding rubies.

What is beautiful in the absense of an eye?