The struggle was the eye,
the eye of a deep blue mingled
with the whisper of the torus.
The struggle was the sphere
whose corners were scratching the wind
of the falling winter.
The struggle was the string
pinched by the hidden
fingers of the remorseless time.
The struggle was the music,
the classical finale of a senseless number
shocked be the comma that precedes it.
The struggle was dancing
alone with the stone of your sight.
The struggle was crawling in an obscure smile.