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To do away with fancy love.

To do away with the grandiose memory.

To be free of the ache of a phantom limb.

Oh what a day when we see that day.

Love is a suicide pact in which only one lover strikes true.

Both beg for a little death, part naieve part fool.

The excitement of a Rapunzel fairy tale, wondering chances of success where a Capulet and Montague fail.

A dog fight, who first will spin the tale?


A damned prisoner watching the inferno peel the paint from the walls.

Forgotten years lying right beneath the surface.

One in a million to survive and see what truly lies at the foundation.

That's the beam poets embrace.  I'd sooner claim no relation.

To live to see the spark blaze and the tremor quake and not try and remedy the constant ache.

To do away with fancy love.

To do away with the grandiose memory.

To be free of the ache of a phantom limb.

Oh what a day when we see that day.


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