Triangle bruises the colour of love
                                             confuse ours with uses more dangerous
                                        than hearts should put up with, jagged kisses
                                   infusing us to fullness of spirit
                              split lips and spill secrets, juices staining
                         youth as muses shit on truth with lyrics
                    no measure of worth can accomplish, pain’s
               modes better when described than applied to
          music’s low-fi likeness of life, portraits
     pulled from canvas by reports of what lies
biography might hide beneath their smiles,

                                                  defiance a posture we rely on
                                             when Heaven sends in exterminating
                                        angels instead of assistance, endings
                                   better sells than beginnings, resisting
                              assimilation a necessity
                         for we who wound so easily, beings
                    lonelier wolves’ colder motives free in
               winter’s discontent without knowing it,
          since hurt’s curative properties emerge
     only once one’s sins scorch skin often and
enough to draw blood, catharsis caution

                                                  inhibits, so Providence is never
                                             surprised when, seeking release, we climb her
                                        summit and, denying her eye homage,
                                   let blind us that divine pyramid’s bright
                              cousin, the unrelenting sun whose disk
                         arrives unsolicited, sampling this
                    masochism our misery perfects
               when we fail to give our Selves any or
          proper credit, catastrophizing and
     propheting from rising after falling,
writing-off coming’s attraction as one

                                                  our brand of unkindness warrants buying
                                             into with reverent repetition,
                                        resurrection’s experience an aid
                                   banned from anyone else’s Olympic
                              ascent, but for us persistence permits,
                         since all things were made by enmity and
                    friendship, and even the gods must admit,
               some consolation is due, maybe some
          forgiveness, too, for giving so many
     reincarnations to these messiest
specimens of creation we call our

                                                  existences, as underwhelming as
                                             they are limiting, omnipotence, it
                                        seems, skipping every generation
                                   since repurposing Adam’s rib, a quick
                              fix to a predicament, for which no
                         one but the architect himself should be
                    held responsible, an accountable
               and intelligent designer with balls
          and a backbone lacking since time began,
     so, foregoing fear and trembling’s tired force,
we mortal firebrands welcome his backhand.