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the cycle cuts both ways
and the haze that lays upon the sky
falls in cascades unafraid of your perceptions.
conceptions, missed and made, kissed and played
for a fool, held in continuous catalepsies.


the promise makes a mark.
stark realizations evoking amotations
in the mouths of children reaching for the golden apples,
sold and consumed in fists fitful and frail.
the sail of the horizon turns away, if only in the dimlight.


the riddle takes it's toll.
soul food for the role we all play in the dance.
chances exchanged in dances made to execute a single turn.
and we burn. oh we burn with incandescent passions,
fashioned in the image of our gods, however we build them.


the memory remains to tell.
and we will share it when we dare again to feel something
less than the most that we toast our fall over, the wine
of wisdom running across tongues made numb with the spices
that twice as oft as not have burnt our lips for a draught of heaven.