Pessimism likes the bone
That is carved open through flesh
The butcher’s knife in the hands
Of the age deity who puts a number on a cake
And here, like petals
On the last day before wither
Praying for an extra day, we start to fade.
Like magnolias that are petrified
Of autumn, when seasons change and last rites
Are announced. And youth, is when we dance and sin
When an orgy called friendship
And a sacrament called sex
Make life a carousal of chiseled memories.
Matters not, which horse or horses we saddled or herded
We are only as glorious as the destinies we share
And the hearts we combust….
