perhaps it’s best we stop here, parting ways

at the crossroads we stood too long beside.

we know the adage: how gold never stays.

surely, far greater loves than ours have died.

we bear the gaunt trappings of yesteryear,

ghostly figures shambling in plushy flesh,

driven on by stark loneliness and fear.

pitiful beings: the cursed whole zeus twice threshed.

foolishly, we cling to the familiar,

roseate–cascading columns. death grip

knuckles taut around the past. the allure,

the promise of satisfaction–so glib.

shed these years and be reborn anew to

a moment in motion, slipping from view.