The Obscure

There are no inhibitions anymore, the monk has found the secret to his losing standard nation. The lost McGovern boy without no land to call his home can no longer fight his way into the lost mountain of trust and the final kiss; who knows no other lover. This distinction alone shows me that I am not the one who's drums can see time itself, incarnate. Carnations by the moonlit sun can tell me where I am to go to see my heroes fight their battles with the gilded iron ships of Man.
Taste me, I am beautiful. Love me, I am shapely.
The blue can no longer show me where, or when, or what, wherever it has stood alongside myself, beside itself, and glaring, staring, never caring for it's glances of damnation and implications of confustication.
Hand me my Eyes, they are smooth enough. My hands, though, they are made of glass, made of glass, and wreathed in brass, giving birth to the children of grass. Handel said, and I concur, that Man has no rule, only Her. She has the sticks and funny logs that make these shambled houses; and we can only shingle roofs, we do our best to please our spouses.
Seeing, fumbling, punching sand and shutting myself into the closet of two-way sex and childish secrets. Canine lovers, golden necklace, and dance steps no one could ever fully learn. Kicking, swinging, hugging, molding, I see my own kneecaps of grey, and dryer hasn't seen the day in which my lips shall join the fray and battle all that ever is, and all that right now: was.
And all the while, looking with ease and glee, is Me, or is it She? She whom I have, till this day, roofed. But I shall Roof no more.