Our Arms would be Tragic

We’re half-born, adrift a wave, buffing costumes; and ever

Such passion: scorned and unborn, wailing requiem and grave.

Such ache, a pillar lifting both edifice and fancy; and you

stand there, grieving your first love. But how can I hold you:

your nights fraught with foreign kisses; and your days

aloft with trysts. So I refuge, and perish, alive such angst

and grit; and there you stand: ever selfish, a distant halo,

grieving both thought and mind. But I love the anguish—a

portrait waxed, gripping a palm full of sawdust. What’s akin

to Jewish strife? a Gentile in mourning—ever to crave the

impossible. So love us a never-born: fraught with smaze, and

ontic reality. Else, channel death: a slanted helm, both feyic

and tragic; for ours is detrimental, a playful chase, as harmful

as acid. So cry this night a feud, and live this day a grace.