In wisdom, it is the cold steel killer
Or shaman, perhaps a grime-fingered thief,
In theory, a destructive argument.
We believe we can save it, measure it
Capture it—but when our hands spring open
We find empty palms and a short lifeline.
Metastatic disease bred through concept
And obligation, the only cure lies
In oblivion—if we are willing
To gamble on vulnerability.
But since the proven method of escape
Provides time with victory and victim,
I will take that risk and devote my life
To burrowing my soul in your beauty.
©2011 Robert Morrow