When we weep, we chirp, wild as birds, and the air chafes with the chipper, chap of those wicked, lucid winds.
When I weep, it is buried within this belly, a burden of my beast, breast brimming with tears and a body of smoke as it takes a toke, belying its slender bulk.
But when you weep, it is my core, the ka, dodging, weaving, and hoping against the shrewdest, most frigid and bloody of words. The discourse of the deranged mind!
The dispassion of this Christ, the great ego, is the greatest of delusions. An effrontery to the sight of my third eye, bludgeoning and beating my fevered and frenzied heart.
“Who are you that you should rapture and capture her heart?”
Suddenly, touched for an instant of time stretched across the fourth and fifth dimensions, numerous legions and pages of Times New Roman (for we are one), and with a soft baritone note I spoke:
“In the beginning was my word, and her word made this flesh quiver, and this soul now shivers down to its silver chord”.
The Philosopher's Poet 