There are things words cannot describe in physical planes and metrics,
How prefixes suffixes and adverbs adjectives have failed.
I despair lest giving it a metaphor will ruin the beauty, unspoken
And to be captured and preserved in a pickle jar. I realised why
Body part collectors keep them in pickle jars, good things come
With age and some good things should not be touched and when you
Assign name descriptive gorged eyeball erect middle finger hair from the drain
You will not comprehend the beauty in the collector’s eyes. You will be left
With a freak of nature and wailing sirens always punctuating something ugly.
What I hope you deduce is that there is beauty in subjectivity I cannot
Unpack. I blame it on qualia, you will never comprehend what I put across
In metaphors and small genie bottles, big enshrined feelings leaking I blame it
On qualia that you will not appreciate green the way plants are green
The way the sky is green the way apple is green. I blame it on
Qualia that your green will never be mine and neither would what I see be yours.
You should know how difficult it is to describe the red on
Your inner eyelid when you turn towards the sun, bath in the feeling of gold.
You smile even if you don’t know why
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