Love and Death (how fuckin' poetic)

 
Who are we to measure love's rule?
It definitely will not seep into the earth
and turn ash into bone, or cracked coal
into that smile, with that glimmer.

This decadence betrays us, makes us stronger,
tells a body that love is enough.
Even when it's dead, dying or born
the novae are the only things that render death
entirely acceptable,
                                                    and beautiful.
It's not a thought, but the grace
of thoughts enkindling others;
a child's toy laying in a breathless house,
sitting upright. It's not waiting; it belongs.

The abstract heart's very own disease and cure
and in the abstract, we are cannibals.
Hunter and game. Cheetah and gazelle.
Protecting and feasting on ourselves.