We, one by one, born with lashes that peak
To cover eyes that look to twisting toe,
With addled tongue and rose-red painted cheek,
And tinkled laughter poorly masking woe;
Who, created equal through tithe and toll,
Are never authors of our living plots.
And ever wind-swept by confusing roles,
We cannot deviate from this our lot.
Why is it, then, that you and I, thus drawn
With arms that yearn and dry lips that beseech,
Use these – our able tools – to tooth and claw
The ones that could sweet oneness truly teach?
In this, I have no answer for you, yet.
And bowing head to breast, I am regret.
