BELLUM
TRANSIT
Love is a delicate,
an injured cub
that plays
and claws and climbs and tirelessly
in sun and
rain keeps searching for its mirror image
among the
tangled scrub of loneliness.
This world
will change, shrinking and grey
but many
caterpillars will weave many butterflies.
Cubs grow up into
lions or lionesses
and tears in
spite of all eventually wed
their laugh.
All flesh is but as ashes
to the worms.
And a human’s nothing
more or nothing
less than a princess
or a king,
formerly sometimes foolish
or
degenerate. What passes is called war
what lasts is
love. Nature withstands
the longest
with her Breath, for she
unites both
forces in her battlefields
of future and
time past. Our heart
is but a
burning at the end
of that slender
bottleneck of mother
goose: this
universe.
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