Slow

Lick slow the slender fingers of sadness,
nibble suffering's tender ear even slower,
sip contradiction's trembling lips slower yet,
absorb paradox's moist eyes slowest of all,
inhale the delicate raging aroma
of this instant in complete stillness,
balance on the thrashing tongue of night and dreams
--dreams, the half remembered kind, that never came to be--
bite deep into the skin of bitterness to find sweetness,
raise up the shuttering moon and sun by which to see,
embrace both tenebrious diurnal and blazing nocturnal nadirs.
As Earth continues to wobble on its axis,
as perfection, camouflaged in some distant pale
midnight constellation, hides its face,
you have only your own eyes with which to see.
Linger. Look. Look with care.