to wrap itself in darkness when it sits upon the fence
to postulate and emulate the problem and desire
of the workings of creation in a variable attire.
If what we see is what we get, then all our loves are fables
told by other parties who would want to turn the tables
on our beating hearts and fleeting arts of passion, intuition
and that strangely pulsing, flaming arc
of soulful ammunition.
We stand here at the front, as if we want to be attacked
by the joyful, sad perversity of what it was we lacked
when we gave ourselves to you in that one instant recognition
of the way our We was going to be
in gauging its position.
Nothing is Forever, but within that happenstance,
a vow was made that can't be slayed by
circumstance or chance.
we have no say in what will play of moments to be frozen.
So as I drift towards my dusty death
You do the same
while a multitude of Angels
claim the right
to fan the flame.