A Cyclical Story Telling of Less Attractive Qualities

she sets herself in direct sunlight
so as to catch each coveted ray,
and to hold it with dainty fingers,
loose and lovely, while questions
pour from troubled thinkers, and
children hold hands platonically.
creation and an apex, in its miles

of broken shards. are the molecules
shaped so lovely, all desperately
clinging to one another? are the
seconds and synapses set in motion?
but perhaps she is a monster,
weathered by the death and devastation,
characteristic. perhaps she is no lover,

merely whitewash and headstone.
perhaps it is no throne of judgement
where she sits. I think that she will not
deliver me. though those cells and
molecules combine to so lovely a
frame. perhaps we will not collide
in the floating and dive-bombing

endangerments of Life. though, as the
lists and charters and covenants stack
up, all swollen with the "perhaps," one
more to be ventured: perhaps life is
merely death confronted, transcended.
perhaps we might face it all
together.