The melancholy phlegmatic
Congested with emotion
Slumbering contently
In the castle of their dreams
The visceral humors
Of which we are composed
Are measured and flowing
Into everything we do
What vulgar beauty
Born from biology
Becomes the gilded words
Of angelic songs
Organisms lifted from mud
And from beneath wet rocks
Create the majesty of love
From the call of fornication
No great force gave us bile
Nor blood or mucus
The heaven we have painted
We paint from the mire
-pain, sorrow, and ire-
within ourselves
-Galwyn