This-
-a subject in need of dire discussion:

It has been argued the People are ever the aggressor;
unwieldy, illogical children.

Rioting without cause;
martyrs to treason.

A lie-
-the Lie.

Police brutality, senatorial banality,
the sting of verbalized hatred?

These too are political;
a violence driven by reigning powers:

Microcostic displays of decay,
condoned and arrayed:

Neat lines, neat numbers;
statistics, not People.

In the end, faced with such imposition-
-that a fist is made:

The cornered rat bites;
fights to survive, no matter the cost.

Aye,
cruelty.

We are as Athens and Athena,
mortal and divine,
entwined/inspiration:
libations made for love's drugged mind.

Romance is no thing of flame or wax;
it is the spark and starter,
and sometimes falls splat.

You need for fuel for endurance,
patience for warmth;
understanding of limits, and humour for more.

There is worth in choice, in holding firm,
in bending to whims,
in affection deserved.

By grace of Man,
by imagined God,
love is this and more unsought.

Let freedom ring from the highest mountaintops,
but first know:
You are a slave to the machine, stuck:

Consent was never given.
Capitalism conquered our vision
of right,
of wrong,
of things well beyond,
and all the air we breathe.

It shapes our thoughts,
acceptance the lot
given to US, you and me.

The children that mine,
the beggars that crawl,
the infants that starve,
a price for us all.

In this we are bound,
from this we might flee,
otherwise fight
with fury and glee.

Fires we'll set,
smoke we'll inhale,
chains will sunder,
freedom exhaled.

Or perhaps it best,
that we stay slaves of rest
ignorantly sipping our tea.

Loving the idealized version of another person.
What a terrible disservice to yourself and them.

We are not gods, we fleshly humans,
Ichorous and unfailing-

-our blood runs thin:
Hands on a clock.
See them-
-their truth,

and love.

Her name is Grace - I never did find out the last.
She stands a little over six foot - has skin like teak and a smile that laughs.
I said, "I think I'm falling in love with you," on the seventh date.
She smiled. Punched my arm, too.
Whispered, "Don't go hitting the ground, lover boy."

We hadn't even started to soar.

When snow fell, it caught in her hair like a sea of crystal, stars soaking night.
I loved the scent each strand carried, floral oils a bright nasal bite.
She thinks the world of honey and judo, and names her sister the best.
Last Monday, she stole my phone charger.
Now we can't reconnect.

All that said - and a whole lot more left private - I wish her the best.

I wish her the kindest.