Garner hope, a dream, and stoke that fire,
Place flesh upon a storied promise,
Sine children spy we another auspice.
Extinguished stars and starlets played their parts,
demonstrated their practices and skillfull arts,
A character to play, though few before would truly walk,
Drama no man dare mock,
For we do sigh, and weep and groan,
For that love which we have never known.
A trick? A fable? A Fairytale?
To comfort and defer the hunger, Yet a faint fragrance we insatiably inhale,
The story intended to pacify,
We grasp and hope for breath to live and die.
But like that of Homer and Ulysses,
tails of Shakespeare and Aphrodite,
All grow old for all are but story,
Sweet to the ear, but no more than fantasy.
Union a pleasant substitute, and children grow,
Shall we try once more, be tossed to and fro?
Is war and hate our only honed skill,
And self-esteem our singular unsatisfying thrill?
Is love a story, a phantom dream,
And His death held in such low esteem?
But late, when we were all but spent,
drew others, trembling, doubtful, to make the long ascent.
A chance, hearts ready to be once more dashed,
The others too, their hope prepared to return to ash.
A chance, a moment, a time in space,
We find His children, love waiting, face to face.
|Face to Face, by MachiavelliCro|