Augustine knew a thing or two about
that earthly pleasure inter, as it were,
our faeces urinamque nascitur.
(He did a lot before he did without.)
His restless intellect rebelled and sought
a form of pleasure less defined by death.
Since sex is a beginning, just like breath,
and what begins will end; what is will not.
Augustine is a saint, and dead to boot.
While most of us, just dragging through our days,
have less consideration for the ways
each pleasure leads to some immortal fruit.
We find delight where grief and pain abound,
and compromise between the sky and ground.
This has been a nodeshell rescue.