Pain; the first conceit,
promise and consecration.
Some would call it love;
mayhap, and some would call it sin.
And I would call it living, love;
watch it begin again.
Yes we are slaves to urges,
broken toys, in aimless dance,
to scattered tunes. Afraid;
I fear; our songs are over,
silenced by our failings, feeling;
we falter without knowing,
crying without seeing.
Swallowed by the world uncaring,
we tumble from embrace,
oblivion waiting beyond sleep,
found outwith those arms,
all-encompassing, everlasting,
inevitable in their coming absence
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