Step Into the Arena

He was glad he ate her heart like a gladiator’s part in the fight we all watch to make violence an art.

As colosseum connoisseurs, we call or see ‘em as we feel it, pillars of our personality grounded in modes of ascension.

There must be a middle ground in this battle mound, where the lost gather to become the proud found, but the spectators’s respect is more ephemeral than a specter, and our expectations are never reality, our temptations never temporary temperate, but temperamental like a tempest.

If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and the eye of the storm never grows older, and the third eye was never born to be bolder, then are we really blind to the vision of others?

Or are our percepts an exception to the perception of the exceptional?

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