Force Majeure Of The Heart

Lies
at one time
tasted like the sunset.
 
Now,
the rusting horizon somehow has legs,
lumbers through our minds on iron stilts,
wading past the flood of memory
like tsunami-resistant dinosaurs.

For here,
huddled under the treacherous canopy of poetic awareness,
there is only the bone-filling momentum of the past,
arcing across the sky of ourselves like fiery skidmarks.
 
So we ignite,
and burn with the fierceness of fascination,
dancing jubilantly in erratic I-don’t-give-a-fuck motions
that ring out like the opening salvo of War & Peace.
 
Lies
at one time
tasted like the sunset.