A sharp philosophical system, a harsh critique
Of modernism; classicism bent
Toward the program of a patriarchy
That pulls a veil over the light within.
The argument, the logic of a Sartre
Is not devoid of art nor ear nor care,
But has me sad and quiet in a room
And wandering the media unpublished.
I sang for her and didn't make no sense.
I made a choice and knew that it was wrong,
Quite like the God we build a scripture for;
Although the wrong itself is fruit of right,
Like darkness and a nothing birthed the light
That illumines a soft, beautiful you.
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