Love out of touch, we could not bare
Alone, with loosed arms overreaching
And love sparkled dancing,
On the breaking rim of a star,
Innocent and new under the constellations
Of the pinned gods' eyes.
We told ourselves the story of ourselves,
Each one, a penned, perfect fable,
Each one a journey into the dark,
Under the faint and rising milky ways,
Where even shadows, poor,
Are always, almost, lost.
Out of conception, and pining dream
And the myths we most want to make,
Out of dream, would we soon awaken?
This then is hope, a stroke, as we dressed,
Children spinning yarns below the stars,
Is the game, the game of let's pretend.
We would not bare, love out of touch.
