Humor

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

 

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