Member Poem

Nothing to be learned,
nothing to be gained,
art to be made,
madness to be kissed.

Make love to your revered beauty.
She looks onto your state of mind as piousness,
and to the pious she blesses
the key of art,
the key to the heart.

She gives courage to keep the fire bright
of a hopeless love and an unattainable dream,
the one that makes you wake up
gleaming with sweat
and cursing at your hopelessness and inadequacy.

Make love to your enamored deity
that will let you fly to the sun
with your makeshift wings.

As your feathers fall like rain,
she seductively whispers in your ear
telling of how you are such a graceful bird:
“fly, fly little bird, touch the sun.”

All fear abandoned,
you fly higher and higher up,
and in that height
you fall into the darkness.