In loving you
I've come to realize that my heart
has the capacity
to love infinitely,

so now that you're gone
<you, the only being capable of singly holding
infinite love>
I have the duty to fill the world with it.

I am only a man,
but like us all,
I have the ability
to give more than myself.

Terror is the tool of the weak,
inflicted in the hopes of turning a cut
into an infection.

And here it is,
sound the alarm to cut off the arm
for a wounded finger.

It is easier to be cowardly in the face of danger
until the moment the fear-mongering subsides
and introspective reflection reveals a collective shame,

the shame that we steeled our hearts out of fear,
and did not double down on our compassion,
as the prophet Jesus Christ of Nazareth did
in sacrifice of something bigger than just a god.

There's evil in the bunch, they say,
so the quickest solution is to burn the bunch.
You better pray to your god, then,
that no one survives,

for a hand reaching out for assistance,
in being rejected is a sin on both the aggrieved
and the denier, to be carried in the hearts
of our children like molten lead.

The surviving generation will remember, of course,
and the terror will be realized.

What a shame
to call on god
when he has fallen, too.

There are no gods left!
So here we stand, again,
mankind left
to its own devices.

Come, brother,
let us see what good we can do.

I wish I could see the world again,
through the eyes of a child.
It is the gods we build in men that crash the hardest,
and it is only after the fall that we learn
the demise of man was inevitable.

Right and wrong are terms of innocence,
easily defined by children.
I try to do right now, but it mostly settles
like a fog.

The best I can do
is to act
as I've taught my children to.

There is a pair of sisters,
Serendipity and Tragedy.

I enjoy the company of Serendipity,
but I favor Tragedy above all others;
I will carry her in my heart,
laughing, to the grave.

It’s lonely, where I am,
where you are, a lover’s leap
and a stone throw away.
But thrown away is the stone,
the key to your heart.
It beats slowly,
and cannot match mine’s pace.
Catch up, Catch up, it says.
I cannot hear you, yours says.
I’ll wait, mine says.
I do not love you, yours says.
And when have we not listened to our own hearts?

I have slowly rid myself of her remnants,
so that, at last,
all that remain are memories,
to become as distorted and blurry
as they may.

While I have much gratitude for my memories,
I have never trusted them,
and only now does she begin to fade.