Let me touch something good and real and green,
Alive and thriving and pulsing and diving,
The resultant of your action.
An effect of your cause.
The fruition of your love.
Let me know the world is yours and all that lives in it, loves in it,
That the kingdom is not random
But formed and adored by its Maker.
You are not vicious.
Though we bite and devour each other and write screenplays about it and build terrifying dreams of reality from the scraps of our damaged imaginations,
You are not our broken horror construct.
You exist outside, rerouting our hounded paths to your holy halls.
See? You ask. And we do, when you say it.
See. You say, and we do, for you see us.
Our slumbering minds in nightmare, recoiling, repulsed at our constructs.
Awake. You whisper.
And we do, to a reality deemed better,
Screaming beauty, that we touch and hold and adore,
Made bold to walk the golden, gilded road back with you through you to you.
For you are beauty.
See. Awake. Live.